Model Student
by Starbrigid
Summary: If there’s no one else but the two of us: why is it that first love is always, always unrequited? On Asaba, and finding a balance. AU, onesided Asaba x Arima, Miyazawa doesn’t exist. Recently reedited.
1. Welcome to the Twilight Zone

Disclaimer- Kare Kano is not mine. Asaba, Arima, Sakura, Rika, Aya... none of them. Sigh. However, the original characters are mine, meaning Namie, Chihiro, Kyo, Arisu, Risa, Tsuyoshi, and anyone else I forgot.

Author's Note- This is an AU (Alternate Universe) fic written from Asaba's POV, in which Miyazawa doesn't go to their school, and neither he nor Arima ever meet her. The pairing is (one-sided) Asaba x Arima. This was inspired by two scenes in the anime- one, where Asaba was telling Miyazawa about his father, how Arima reminded him of his father and had helped him resolve things, and Miyazawa wondered what they must talk about. The other was that rooftop scene where Arima's jealous and thinks Miyazawa's drifting away from him. Asaba asks what's wrong, and Arima just leans against his back, and they're silent. Sorry for any and all OOC, be it small or numerous.

For anyone who isn't familiar with Kare Kano- two model students, Miyazawa Yukino, a seemingly perfect girl who actually is shallow and thrives off the praise of others, and Soichiro Arima, a boy who actually is sincere, meet. They're rivals at first, but then they become friends, and then fall in love. Asaba Hideaki is a playboy who befriends Arima to use him to get girls, and dislikes Miyazawa at first. However, they soon all become friends.

Summary- If there's no one else but the two of us- why is it that first love is always, always unrequited? On Asaba, and finding a balance. AU, one-sided Asaba + Arima, Miyazawa doesn't exist. See inside for more details.

Model Student

Starbrigid

Today, on my first day at Hokuei senior high, I met someone very interesting. He's all I can think of, even though it's late, practically midnight, an hour I can stay up to without intervention ever since my father and I parted ways. I'm not sure what I'm going to do about someone like him being here. It certainly does change my plans. It should be an annoyance, but actually, I'm really excited. As I make myself a late night snack, some instant ramen, I picture him swirling with the water I'm heating, silent and formless, but about to be put to use soon enough!

I have to go over what happened in my mind again. I'm still not completely positive I didn't make a fool of myself somehow- I was kind of shocked...

My first day of high school! It was a start of a new time in my life, a signal of my greatness to come! Ah, and the uniforms the girls were wearing, the short skirts and long dark socks, and their cute faces all turned up to me, smiling! They were mine! I felt like blowing a kiss out to my adoring public as I strode up the path to the school's entrance.

Yes, I'm so handsome, I thought to myself. I'd even astounded myself when I looked in the mirror that morning and seen perfection enough to make Dorian Gray throw a hissing fit out of envy. The gods so loved me. And like they love me, I do love girls, have I communicated that yet? Everything about them is so nice. Sometimes I feel they were put on this Earth just for me.

I'm definitely a B-type, even though I've never had a blood test, I think I am because of the way my mind wanders. My father always got angry at me for it, berating me for checking out girls when I should have been studying math, whacking his cane across my hands whenever I zoned out when he was talking to me. I mean, I'm generally the only one who can hold my own attention. But there's someone different now- that's the person I saw.

His name's Arima Soichiro. I first saw him in the opening ceremonies, the highest scorer of the entrance exams for our class. I'd nearly fallen off my chair when he walked up the stairs to the stage and I got a full view of him.

There was shock, disbelief, worry, anger... I don't now. I didn't see the girls around me at that moment, which is something very rare. The only thought I can remember is: He's prettier than me! My inner voice was frantic, but my ego tried to fight back. No, of course he wasn't. He was a nerd, wasn't he? He's smart. Plus, I'm me! But-

I know girls. I can tell they all like him, just like they all like me. Arima Soichiro. For the first time in my life, someone's beaten me.

You don't know Arima? It's hard to explain someone like him. Like extolling the virtues of God to an infidel. No, that was a bad analogy, I don't know what I meant. What I mean is that like me, Arima's gorgeous. Handsome. Hot. Bishounen. You name it, that's him. Not just cute, striking, in a bring-out-the-rain-of-sakura type way. He's got this shiny dark, dark hair framing his face, really black eyes, flawless skin like a movie star's. He's tall and slender, and he's got this presence that makes you look up when he comes into the room, charisma, like a famous singer, or some manipulative dictator with aspirations of world domination. He's in my class, so I watched him all day, as if I was a stalker or something. It was a really weird experience, I'd never done anything like that before.

His voice is gentle and soft and sounds different from the other boys, more mature, though what do I know about maturity? We picked up right where we were supposed to have left off in junior high- god, like I remembered any of that stuff- and he knew it all. He's really smart, but he's not mean about it, either. It's hard to take your eyes off him. It's like he's this weird human magnet or something.

He's nice to everyone, and I mean everyone, from pretty girls to obvious losers. He ate lunch in a circle of kids who'd been popular in their junior highs. I think he'd been too polite to turn them down, because they were the first offer he got. That's because it seemed like he would have been happy anywhere.

I was there too, surrounded by girls, and their fawning and flirting did feel great, but I kept watching Arima. He seems so perfect it's unreal- surreal. He's like a doll. I mean, is anyone like that? And anything else can be affected or earned, but- why is he so beautiful?

He didn't notice me. He smiled faintly at me, the same way he smiled at everyone else in the room. I didn't talk to him. I sat next to him in the afternoon, though, and it drew even more girls to the two of us, not that he seemed to care. He wasn't modest, but he was above them all, above concerning himself with them. He's so amazingly intelligent, like a genius, a dictionary. A doll.

I went out with some girls after school. Some kids had asked Arima to go out with them, but he'd announced he had to stay and help clean. The girls and me sang karaoke, and I enjoyed it a lot. My father and people like him can't understand how it makes me feel. It's the one thing I'm actually good at, and consequently, I'm great at it. I don't touch them, though. I've never kissed anyone. Thinking of the way Arima's gaze went right over me as I flaunted myself in school- I won't defile their purity. They are tender flowers waiting to burst into bloom. They'll always be a carpet of sakura petals on the ground, bright, fallen, unfading, there for me to fall into and disappear.

When we were waiting for our new math teacher to arrive, Arima started working on review problems in the book. He was smiling this really- god, how many stupid synonyms for beautiful can I find- dazzling smile. I had been gonna talk to him, show the class we'd be friends, because even if he didn't like me once he knew me- and I would know if he didn't like me- he'd put up with me. And Arima Soichiro and I, the ladies man, the two of us being the beautiful people, would be a fixed set.

I had taken my earring out for some reason during history. I guess I'd felt like playing with it in the boredom of lecture and review. I dropped it, and it bounced and rolled a little. Arima picked it up for me with complete distant and bland good-boy courtesy and of course for a second I hated him and was miserable. And he has to be fake, and I wonder what his family's like-

So we had gym, played basketball outside. It was way too hot to do anything, but that sure didn't stop the teachers. Well, you always hear about people being ice princes, cold, stuff like that, right, in manga and all? Well, everyone was visibly sweating, boys and the girls near us playing soccer. Well, they didn't sweat, they glistened- but that's not the point. The point is that Arima, as predicted a stunning athlete, didn't get tired at all. He's frozen.

I don't feel like cooking tonight. I'd probably end up burning whatever I try to make anyway. My life has been altered. I'm a new Asaba Hideaki. I have a mission. For the first time in my life, I'm gonna have a friend.

I call up one of the girls I met today and we talk for a while. She's cool and interesting, it's nice. She likes girls just as much as I do. Her name's Tsubaki Sakura, a double flower name. Camellias and sakura, what a contrast. She's in a different class, so we don't have to compete with each other. We only have a few small points of contention. Naturally, it's about what we have the most in common- our dedication to the fairer sex. But I can't resist- I drop Arima's name. It just bursts out of me in this sympathetic company.

"Arima," I blurt, just like that.

"Huh?" Sakura says. "What about him?" She doesn't sound properly respectful of Arima. It's very annoying.

"We're best friends," I say, and know she'll tell all her little girlfriends about it.

I can picture the boyish girl on the other end of the line making a face at me, snickering. "All the girls are just gonna have yaoi fantasies about the two of you, you know... and no way are you even telling the truth."

"I am," I protest. Normally, I'd defend myself a lot more vehemently, but I don't want her to beat me up.

I watch TV, then end up just going to sleep. I have a dream about Arima, since I'd been thinking about him as I lay in bed beforehand. Midnight. Something about him made me-

I comb my hair extra this morning and wish it's a lighter blonde. It suddenly seems to dull to me, so ugly, the worst possible sin according to me, and the waves itching over my cheeks make me want to scream. I'm ugly. Arima made me ugly. Nobody will ever want me anymore. What reason is there for me to exist? And I close my eyes and of course when I open them I'm fine, I'm just the same as I was before. It was just an illusion, a trick of the light. I'm under stress. I haven't been getting enough sleep lately. This image of me now is the right one. I'm Arima Soichiro's best friend. My black uniform goes on, my earring for once changed. I feel like singing and dancing and screaming. I'm dignified if I'm confident enough to say I am, that's the only qualifier that matters.

I ride the subway to school. My junior high was closer than Hokuei, I could walk there. I have to stand, but some girls from a nearby college stand with me, and we have a good time joking around. I'm a gift to them also. It's times like this when I can really enjoy that.

Arima was early today, as he is every day, coming before even the teacher to study or whatever. Now, by the time I arrive, the classroom is full, freshman congregated in little, mostly gender-segregated groups, waiting for their freedom of action to be taken away.

No one has ever made the particular assertion that I can't work quickly. Somehow, there's a seat next to him empty, I guess because he's studying and obviously not interested in talking. He's not the kind of guy who'd get pissed off if I interrupted him, though. Somehow, he's even more like a manga hero today- the adventures of the model student. Until I met him, I didn't know what "model student" meant.

"Hey," I say. He looks up, giving me a distant, perplexed half-smile.

"Hello," Arima greets me blandly.

"Arima Soichiro, right?" I say, and my voice and pose are all confidence. I lean towards him with the utmost of poise and compellingness- is compellingness a word? Probably not. Well, anyway I was compelling. Bloody stupid hell. So anyway, I say, "I've been wanting to talk to you. I'm Asaba Hideaki."

Arima sort of bows in his seat. "Nice to meet you," he says politely, closing his book. Good, he's giving me his attention.

I could open by complimenting him, but that's not my style. I could ask some inane, completely pointless question about what junior high he went to or something- well, ditto.

"Hey, wanna be friends?" I blurt. He doesn't look very surprised, only putting some minute half-surprise on his face for my benefit.

"Alright," Arima says, looking at me, then asks nicely, "Do you understand everything the teachers have taught us so far?"

"Yeah," I lie. I want to give him a good impression of me.

"A-ah," Arima says, "You seem so laid-back, though." He probably didn't believe me. He laughs quietly, breaking the ice- eh, bad expression- and I laugh, too, relieved. Kids are staring and whispering and I can hear one girl say how handsome we both are. Even though she probably thinks I didn't hear her, I did. Even if I hadn't been listening, I would have known she'd said it. It's my due, after all.

I don't know what to think about Arima. We're friends. I've attached myself all parasite-like to him and we sit next to each other and have lunch together and he stays and helps me clean after school even when it's my turn and not his. I'm the only one who talks to him. When Tsubaki Sakura sees us at lunch, I shoot her a smug glance, an I-told-you-so that would have made any other girl swoon. She sticks her tongue out at me, not mad, and goes off and sits somewhere with her two best friends, Rika and Aya. They're okay. They're not Arima.

He doesn't seem to want to talk about himself. Whenever I ask him something remotely personal, he skims over it quickly. I don't know. I guess he doesn't trust me. It's not like I've given him a reason to, but still, that's not normally the way guys my age think. And I can hide it, but I am always staring at him. I want to see why he is the way he is. That's what I really want. Would he let me come over to his house? I can't think of any real reason he could use to turn me down.

Tonight, and some nights, weeks after that, I find myself wondering, past the ease and surety I feel with him, if he doesn't actually like me at all, if I'm just an annoyance that he's too nice to push aside. Does he know I'm using him? Well, of course, and he doesn't seem to care. I like being with him, but I'm not giving him anything in return.

Whenever I invite him to go with me and some girls somewhere, he turns me down. He won't date anyone, has smoothly turned down any and all confessions of love he receives. I've seen love letters in his locker, virtually identical to the ones I find in mine, and he does read them, he gives the authors that courtesy, but they don't mean anything to him.

What do we talk about? I talk about girls and looks and art and music. I talk to him about popularity and school and I try to talk to him about myself. He will talk back. He's great and both listening and speaking. I think he's honest with me. When I asked him if he fakes his perfect persona, he said he doesn't.

One day he lets me sketch him during lunch. We're "alone in a crowd" and I have a pencil and a sheet of wide-ruled notebook paper, and I told him I like to draw after he pried me about it, as close as Arima comes to prying. When I tell him and then I start drawing, and he knows I do it sometimes by myself and like drawing I feel so stupid and embarrassed, and I'm not sure if I know exactly why. Somehow I never thought I'd be giving him anything of myself.

He still doesn't like me. He doesn't. I've realized that, seeing a look in even his impenetrable eyes of pure irritation once. It's like most of the time, it's alright I'm there, and that's it.

I invite him to come to my apartment. I'd invite myself to his house, but that doesn't seem right. I tell him to come after his kendo practice- it lets out at 8- and I'll give him dinner. I show him my address, and he nods in assent, and he probably just doesn't want to get into an argument.

Merryland. Well, it's kind of a joke to me, I'm not that serious about it. But I am getting more and more cute little sheep now that I'm in high school. I feel so utterly wonderful and myself when I'm surrounded by them and their beautiful voices and smiles. It's such a peace.

I go right home and do my homework today, because Arima's coming. We don't have anything that awful, but it sure takes a while. Halfway through I just give up and watch TV instead. Like I care about my grades. Ooh, swimsuit contest.

I start making dinner at 5 or 6 or so. I decide on something special, because I want to impress him, because maybe he actually will like me if I have Hidden Depths, and would anyone have guessed I can cook? I never cook for anyone and no one knows, but I have to. I live by myself, you know.

Arima arrives a few minutes after quarter past eight, ringing my doorbell only once. I know he's rich. I hope my place isn't too lame for him. He's taking his shoes off when I open the door. He looks around, probably expecting to see a mother or a father or siblings, then bows when he catches sight of me. "Thanks for having me in your home, Asaba-kun," he says formally, studies his surroundings and I guide him in. He doesn't really want to be here.

I made sushi and teriyaki and rice and fish, squandering a good part of my food budget, definitely more than I could afford. It's in platters on my table. I've moved another chair up for Arima to sit on. "Dinner's ready," I announce. "Come on, I bet you're really hungry after practice." Yeah, he does look pretty sweaty.

Arima sits down. "Why doesn't your mother serve the food she made?" he asks, and I sit down across him, an obscene amount of food between us, plates and bowls empty.

My heart feels weird, struck with a sensation of feeling in this indefinable place inside my body, my throat, my chest, and I'm confident. "I made this," I say, and I'm not lying.

Arima tilts his head, stares at me. "Really?" He's surprised now, of course.

"Yeah," I shrug. "Hope you like it. You can start eating whenever you want."

"Where are your parents?" Arima asks, and his voice is very different as he asks the million-dollar question.

I lean back in my chair and tell him, trying very hard for nonchalance. "My mom died when I was little. My dad and I don't get along, so I live here by myself."

And he's looking at me in a way he's never looked at me before, like he's seeing me for the first time, and we're friends. He serves himself some rice and chicken, and so do I, and it's really, really- I love that word- really good, and I don't think I'm so much of a nuisance anymore.

And so we do the same things at school together, and somehow I'm telling him all about myself, how girls really do comprise me, about my father and his rejection of me, my rejection of him, the drawings of my mother which never turn out right, which never look anything like her.

I go to his house a lot for the nights and meet his rich kind old parents, which when I ask he confesses aren't his real ones. And we lie awake on his futon and he won't tell me what happened to his real parents or what anger there is in him and I'm almost out of space to write in for the moment and of course of course of course I, him, I, I for him, I-

Sakura, Rika, and Aya. Rika is so sweet, Sakura and Aya are so incorrigible. Eh, sorry, vocab word in Japanese class. Well, anyway, I think they're my favorite girls in the freshman year. They gush over me sometimes, but it's not just that- we're friends, too, and can have lots of fun.

When Arima's not at lunch, I always go to eat with them, so I guess they're my friends now, too, even though Sakura and I argue a lot. Arima's busy with his kendo and committees and stuff like that a lot of the time, so when I'm not with my other girls, I go to an arcade or something with them. A word of advice, stay far, far away from Sakura and Aya if they decide to play a car racing game against each other...

I don't know how to explain time. Time passes, but it sort of doesn't, except in the changes that in occur in the people around me. I'll never change, because I'm happy to be the way I am. I don't have ambitions. But I like Arima, though I'm kind of confused about that right now, and I love Hokuei and its girls.

I want to have lunch with all my new friends today. It's weird, because normally I'd rather keep Arima all to myself, but I do feel kinda self-conscious around him, and I don't know why. I talk about him all the time, and Aya says I have a crush on him. I nearly throttled her for that. She almost pushed me over the edge.

It's a while before I actually introduce Arima to my girls, since they're in different classes. I look forward to it, then finally, today at lunchtime, I think it's time.

Instead of sitting down with Arima the way I usually do, I stop in front of him and call down to him. "Hey, Arima, there are some friends I want us to eat with today."

"Girls?" Arima groans, getting to his feet with the bento he'd just unpacked in hand. He whacks me on the back of my head. "Hideaki, you idiot." Yeah, he's not really the perfect, angelic boy you'd except. He says I bring out a bad side in him with my stupidity.

Because the weather's nice, everyone's eating outside. The girls are sitting on the steps of the door out of Class F's room. Rika looks particularly pretty today. She's brought some food she made for all three of them to eat and they're dividing it amongst themselves, Sakura trying to sneak the lion's share.

"Sakura-chan, Rika-chan, Aya-chan!" I call, charming as usual, and they turn to face me, Sakura taking the opportunity to pocket not a few little octopuses. "I present you with... A-ri-MA!"

"Hi," Sakura says bluntly. "Asapin talks about you constantly, and I mean constantly. I'm Tsubaki. You gonna eat with us?"

Arima looks rather taken aback. Sakura's manner has that effect on a lot of people. "Nice to meet you," he finally says, bowing, and sets his bento down and sits next to her. "I'm sorry to intrude. Are you in another class? I don't know any of you."

"I'm Sena Rika," Rika introduces herself, smiling invitingly. "This is my best friend, Sawada Aya. I'm really happy to finally meet you, Arima-san. It's a pleasure."

"Huh," Aya says, cutting off Rika and Arima's little niceness contest. "I liked your essay on the Tokugawa bafuku. Very professionally done."

"Oh, aren't you an author?" Arima asks, sounding interested.

"Yes, she is," Rika answers proudly. "There's plenty of food here for you too, Arima-san, if you'd like some."

I, miffed at being ignored, have to jump in. "Hey, Sakura-chan, Arima can beat you up at basketball!"

"Wha?" Sakura turns to me and Arima with a truly frightening look on her face. Arima only has time to blink, then Sakura's dragging him away.

In a few weeks later we've become a group, and Arima's stuck with the unenviable task of making sure we don't all fail the upcoming midterms. Insultingly enough, I'm the one he's particularly concerned about. He seems to have become comfortable enough around me to point out my shortcomings, and in truly excruciating detail.

He ends up taking me on as his personal mission. He says I'm not actually stupid, just lazy. It's okay that I'm not a genius like him, we both know that, but it pisses him off, he says, the way the only class I even in is art. I guess he's right. I don't even know why he always tries so hard, and he's never given me a real answer to that question, but since he is always trying... well, he's my best friend. It's wrong to not work at all when he's doing so much. Saying that, of course, is easier than doing it.

Arima's everything to me. Well, okay, girls are everything to me, but after them, he's a different everything. And I want to help him, to understand him, because for the first time in my life, I've found someone I'm committed to. So I'll pass the midterms even if it kills Arima- I mean, eh, me?

My life isn't too different for the next few weeks, now that I'm temporarily Serious. I mean, I need my girls more than ever. I watch them during lunch, listen to their high sweet voices, stare at the small beauties they possess- at which point Arima usually smacks me, but that's beyond the point. I still act carefree in class, because that's just my personality. But I am going to help Arima. I mean, could anyone be happy the way he is? He's really so closed off from the world. I need to help him. I need him to let me inside his head, because he makes me feel worthwhile.

"I don't get it," I whine for the three-thousandth time. Arima is patient with me when we study, though, unless I'm goofing off, and right now, I'm not. I really don't understand why my proof for this particular math problem is wrong. I really thought that using that theorem there was right. But, of course, it wasn't.

Arima would be a good teacher. He doesn't talk much, but he really is useful when he does. I don't know if his help's making me smarter, but if I can get him to like me more, respect me- if I can get at least a B or a C on my midterm-

That idea's crap, of course. On these things, I've always been lucky not to fail, and I'm not lucky that often.

He shows me how I messed up. I'm too impatient, that's my problem, I rush through and misread things like that. I need to stop trying to just get done as fast as I can. Arima tells me this now, words spoken in tones of honey, reassurance. I could just listen to his voice for days.

I go to watch one of his kendo practices. Even I can tell he's good, really good, and he wins all his practice matches, even the ones where he's pitted against seniors, though he's not arrogant about it. I cheer for him as I watch. There's no reason to pretend I'm not there. I'm not embarrassed to be. I know that after he's changed back into his regular uniform, he'll come out to where I am, sitting waiting for him, and we'll go back to his house and study some more.

I want to be closer to him, that's all. It's not that I'm insecure about our friendship, it's that... well, I don't take things halfway. I can't look back on those times before him anymore, because I promised I'd be a part of his life, whether he liked it or not. I mean, he's just so Arima!

One day after art class the teacher says he wants to talk to me. Considering my general experience with teachers, I'm pretty pissed off about it. I go out into the hallway with him. Arima may be off at some impromptu committee meeting, but my sheep had just been informing me how good my hair looks today. You see the depth of my irritation, to be taken away from that, you see my dark tragedy!

My art teacher is a guy, mid-thirties or something, unruly hair, very Japanese-looking. He's really strict for an art teacher, too, so no one's really overflowing with love for him, but he's generally considered okay. I, of course, in direct contrast to Arima, hate his stupid oyaji guts.

I wonder what I've done now. Maybe it's that I talk too much. I await his attack with barbed tongue, body tensed for flight. Okay, not really. Man, we just had lunch, but for some reason I'm already hungry. Oh, yeah, I made Arima eat most of my bento because he's got extra kendo today. Well, that would do it.

Hayasaka-sensei is smiling faintly when he closes the door of class A behind us and turns to address me, which I find pretty surprising. I feel my eyebrows shooting up. Am I going into juvenile delinquent mode? Maybe. I'm touchy about art class. Things are pretty loud in class C down the hall, so Hayasaka tells me to walk with him.

"Asaba-kun," he begins, "You're not in trouble."

"Huh?" I blink rapidly.

"In fact," Hayasaka says, and it's like I've entered that Western Twilight Zone, "I called you here because you're easily one of the best students in the class, and you don't even use any of your potential."

"Uh, thanks," I say, scratching my head, though careful not to mess up my hair with my nervous habit. So what? He just wanted to compliment me? What does that even mean?

"I want to put you in a special class I'm forming," Hayasaka says. "You and a few other students would leave your classes during your at period and go work with a professional."

"Is Arima going?" is my automatic question- the one I ask out loud, that is. My mind lets out a groaning, incredulous, "You are so shitting me!"

"No," Hayasaka says. "I understand he's very gifted in most everything else, but you're the one I've seen a talent in art in."

My heart is beating like crazy. Fuck, fuck, fuck... what the hell? "Why?"

Hayasaka sighs. "To be honest with you, Asaba-kun, I was hesitant to include you because of your personality, but I don't think I'm wrong about you. Are you interested?"

"Sure," I say.

"I don't want to keep you from class," he says warmly, "so I'll give you the details later. I'm very excited about this opportunity."

He runs off, and I begin the suddenly long trek back to class A. My first, intensely cynical thought, is that he's a closet homosexual pedophile who was just using that as a clever plan to get me alone and rape me. The second thought is that all the teachers are sick of me distracting the girls and are going to chop me to death with their protractors and graph paper. I go back to class A anyway, and resolve that if I see a single line of drool on Hayasaka or if he's in a possession of any sharp objects, I'm outta there.

When we only have a week left till midterms, Arima decides we need to start studying even more. He's being let out earlier from kendo this week, so he makes me wait for him to go hit the books. It really puts a cramp in my social like, lemme tell you, but since it's Arima, I don't complain. Well, I cease complaining sometimes when I need to breath.

One of these nights, a Saturday, we're up so late, Arima just tells me to stay for the night. There's no one I have to call to tell. No one would worry about me not being at home.

Arima lets me borrow some of his clothes to sleep in. Even though I'm bigger than him, he still finds some that fit me alright. He's good at stuff like that. He turns off the lights and we lie down on his futon, the red numerals on his digital clock declaring it well past midnight. I think he's more tired than I am. Being here, I don't know how I could ever sleep, not in a hundred thousand million years.

He lies on his side, facing away from me, clad in black silk pajamas like the rich boy he is. It's pretty dark, but the outline of his shape is still clear, lit by the window, the half moon and stars, by his computer and clock, light glinting dark highlights off his hair.

I don't know if he wants to sleep, but I feel like talking. I hope he won't get mad if I start blabbing. Getting angry wouldn't be like him. I wonder if he's drowsy at all. I'm not. He shifts to get comfortable and his side brushes against mine. It startles me. It's funny, for someone who's so cold, he really is warm.

"I'm not gonna be in art with Class A anymore," I tell him, making my voice quieter than usual. He's not looking at me, though I'm looking at him, staring a blurry hole into the back of his neck. "Hayasaka put me in this special class for gifted artists. Isn't that just the weirdest thing you've ever heard?"

"It suits you," Arima says, voice clear, and I know he hadn't been falling asleep before I started talking. "It's time someone recognized that about you."

I don't blush when someone compliments me, but I feel weird inside. It's really hard to believe what they're saying. It's good, though, it feels warm, because I know Arima's not a liar.

I used to watch Evangelion when I was younger, much younger, watched it religiously until it started getting really violent. It started giving me nightmares, and Mom, who was still alive then, wouldn't let me keep seeing it. But anyway, there's this scene in one of the first episodes, more than once, where the main character wakes up after almost dying. His words- "this ceiling is unfamiliar." I'd say it, speak those blank words, if it wasn't too dark to see anything above me at all. When I move, my hand brushes a soft strand of Arima's hair. He can't feel it, doesn't move or react. I shift back quickly, guiltily.

"What happened to your real parents?" I ask.

"They're dead," Arima says. "Like your mother." I should have assumed that. I want him to look at me, but I won't ask him to.

"Should I be sorry?" I ask.

"No."

My frustration's boiled over and before I know it I'm grabbing his shoulder and pulling him to me. "Look at me, dammit!" I yell, blurt it out, and his face makes me choke. He looks... discontent, unhappy, like maybe it was hard for him to say that. That like every single person on Earth, there are things he regrets.

"I'm sorry I made you tell me," I whisper, feeling awkward, stupid, like my body's too big for me, and Arima's too close, but I'm the one who dragged him here.

"It's alright," Arima says. "Hideaki..."

The sound of my name on his lips sends a shock through my body. He's looking at me now, and I want-

"Wanna talk about it?" I ask, and he does.

His father was his family's outcast. The family consider him just like his parents, call him a demon child. They hate him and fear him. They think he's scum, just dirt beneath their heels. Every year, despite everything he does to try to live up to the expectations he imagines for himself, they cast him out further and further.

His mother hurt him. She hurt him. He was just a child.

Arima doesn't cry. And I think he needs to say this, even though it's late, and he's telling me what it's like, and I can feel it, and it's hell, that's all. And I want to reach out and touch him, but I can't. There is absolutely nothing I can do.

"Thanks for telling me," I finally say, as if my words could even reach him. His face is different as he turns to me, and I'm scared suddenly. He's transformed, another person. He looks murderous.

"I don't know why you'd tell me, except that I'm here," I say miserably, and I'm not like myself. "I don't know what to say." A pause. Then I whisper, "Should I just be quiet?"

A nod, and then there's warmth. Arima's reached over and grabbed ahold of my hand. He says he's the most worthless person in the entire world, that he hates himself, that he's deceiving everyone, that if they knew what he was really like they'd all hate him just as much. He says he's a monster.

When we go to sleep, my fingers are still wrapped around his.


	2. Deviation

Model Student

Chapter Two- Deviation

I wake up and I'm alone. Arima's mother's voice is calling me to breakfast. I'd much rather sleep some more. With a groan, I snuggle further into the blankets and close my eyes again, but it's too bright. Arima's switched out on the lights. I blink, disoriented, faded impressions of bright shapes swimming around my eyes. Arima's already dressed, and is standing above the futon, looking at me expectantly. I musn't disappoint his parents. After all, I'm his friend, so he'll be judged by me.

I don't have a change of clothes, so I put on my discarded uniform and waddle out a few minutes later. I'm not a morning person at all. It figures that Arima would be. They're all at the table when I stumble in, the picture of a perfect Japanese family. The breakfast is traditional, which I never make myself at home. Oh well. I catch my reflection in the glass panes of their china cabinet, and my hair's a complete nightmare. I reach up and try to smooth it as I take my seat, and I just end up making it worse. My chair faces Arima's, and I feel a jolt run through me when I see him and remember. He's been through so much, but he still trusted me with it. Because he thought I'd understand?

Because I do understand, all too well. I'm exactly like him. I'm glad.

The food's good for traditional fare. I'm not that hungry, but I manage to still force it down. I try to act as charming as I can for Arima's parents as they make small talk and ask me questions. It's stupid, but I have trouble keeping my eyes on them. I want to see this new Arima- Soichiro. Should I call him Soichiro now?

When they ask Arima how my grades are, dead silence ensues. Then I start talking about Arima and I's friends, Sakura-tachi, and the subject isn't brought up again.

Arima walks home with me. He's got lots of work to do, but we need to talk, so we make our way down the town's streets together, the sounds of cars and early morning and voices cutting into what we say. It'll be a while till we get to my apartment. He knows that, of course.

"Your parents are really nice," I tell him, inappropriately, and regret it.

"Thank you," I tell him, but I don't dare say what for, and I'm not completely sure what I meant myself.

I wish I had my Walkman so I could listen to music. I crave a pop beat, so I start singing, and most people would be embarrassed to do something like that, but I lost any sort of self-consciousness a long time ago.

"Thank you," Arima says to me, echoing my own words, and relieved, I smile at him, the most honest smile I have.

"Anytime," I say. "And hey, I probably will be passing midterms now."

So we end up talking about whatever we feel like. And he asks, so I tell him my father has a business trip and will be staying with me, a free hotel, for a few weeks. I mean, it's not like he doesn't pay all my expenses, so I can't say no. I tell him I'm nervous about it, that I feel really angry. He says maybe this is a chance to make things right between us, and that he'd like to help me. I say he already has.

It's kinda like that, then I'm home and by myself again, and I watch his back as he fades into the crowd like he's some hero, because that's what he is. Except- Jesus, can't I be the hero of my own story?

If he ever wants that, I'll give it to him, an ear, or just silence. A touch, contact, understanding, because the way I feel about him is-

I switch on the music I'd been wanting once I'm in my apartment and dial up Sakura's number. Arima says that they're more my friends than his. Well, at least I can have him all to myself. I do love that idea.

We go to the mall, and it's fun, even though we're stuck at a bookstore for a while because of Aya, who Rika immediately sides with. Sakura and I take up that opportunity to pick up girls. I'd always envisioned Arima as my ally in that, but Sakura's much better at it, and she actually enjoys it, so I'm not gonna try to drag Arima into my Merryland anymore. Sakura's happy to take his place. Well, maybe happy is an overstatement. There are still some issues we have to work out…

I find myself wondering if my father would like them. I don't think he would. They're all talented, Rika in girl things, Sakura in sports, Aya in words, but he wouldn't find them proper or whatever. That's one of the reasons why I like them, right? They call me Asapin all the time now, which the other girls have started doing. It's cute, I like hearing that name from them. Of course, I'd die if Arima ever called me that.

Funny, for some reason, today I can't summon up my usual hostility and contempt towards my father. I wonder why.

He'll be coming next Saturday. Well, at least I'll have midterms done by then. I think. I can never get the schedule down. I wonder what he'll think of Arima. Oh, wait. Shit. SHIT!

I sit down on my threadbare couch, and it sinks down under my weight, old fabric making my arms itch, rash. Bloody sodding- holy fucking- what if he figures out that I- Arima-

That I what! God, we're friends. Sometimes I pretend there's something more between us to tantalize my lambs, but- I mean, Arima would never-

I feel a sudden pressure in my throat, choking, a warmth, stinging in my eyes. Looks like there are some things I've got to straighten out, too.

The new art class won't start until the week after midterms, but I still get Hayasaka after me on Monday, shoving packets of papers and supply lists in my face constantly and chasing after me with supposedly important information at every lunch. Like I don't have enough to worry about with midterms and all that other stuff coming up. Study, study, study… My sheep are shocked. They can't believe my new attitude at first. They soon accept it, though, as a new virtue of mine, and begin to extol my praises- is that the correct phrase? Well, they extol my praises just as they should.

Okay, Arima. By myself the night before midterms, and it's an unfamiliar feeling, so foreign it takes a while for me to name. This is loneliness. I'm lonely without him. Even though I know it's impossible, I want to see him so much. I don't know if he misses me. He must be content where he is. He's probably not thinking of me like I'm thinking of him. And it won't stop. My mind will go somewhere else for a while, but it will always come back to him. It's like without knowing it, I've become so dependent on his presence, just the knowledge that if I want to reach him, he'll be right there. Even if he's right next to me, though, I don't know how to- I won't say what I need to say- Because it's wrong.

I can draw. I don't know what art is to me, but I like lines, shapes, colors. Aesthetics has always been my specialty. I see something like beauty when I look in the mirror- I appreciate myself, and I appreciate other things of beauty. Drawing is, thus, creating beauty. Art is order, the mundane, my frustration, it's just me, fitting between crisp black curves in a coloring book.

I can't draw myself, I can't, even though I try to now, and I focus so much. Whenever I do, the lines mutate into something unrecognizable. Arima is getting hard for me to show also. I guess maybe I want to put all his hurt and his greatness on paper, so anymore who looks can see that beauty, too, that eternal ideal finally brought to complete, achingly perfect fulfillment. When we're alone, Arima and me talk about ourselves, about our families, our dreams. He tells me what he thinks life is. I want to know what he thinks I am, but I won't ask him. Sometimes he asks to see my sketches, so he does, and they're just ugly, superficial little things, but he really does seem to like looking at them. It's like they lift a weight from his shoulders. That's what I draw for.

I realize that though I've been putting it off, I have to start making preparations for my father's arrival. The sofa will fold out into a bed for him to sleep on, so I go buy linens and extra pillows for it. We're both used to sleeping on Western-style beds, a predilection of his that he passed on to me. I start stocking up on food, too, because I'll be cooking for two people instead of one. The idea of cooking for my father is weird. I'm sure he'll hate whatever I make.

Midterms aren't the ordeal I thought they'd be. I know a lot more of the answers this time around than I ever have in the past. I guess the studying paid off, though I still don't get some of the concepts… or maybe it's that for the first time ever I'm really trying, focusing on the paper in front of me. It's the only thing in the room I'm looking at, it and Arima, bent over his own exam, hair falling into his face, expression serious, totally absorbed in his work, teeth firmly clamped down on his bottom lip. Somehow I get the feeling that lip will result in more than a few extra wrong answers.

We have gym last thing today, pushed back because it's the first day of a big examination. My locker's in a row near the door, so I get to it quickly, pulling off my uniform and changing into shorts and T-shirt. Man, basketball again today. I go down to the fourth row of lockers and wait for Arima to finish.

He's in the shorts already, legs long and smooth where they're crossed around each other on the bench. Some teacher probably held him up, because he's not normally this late. Everyone else in his row has already gone outside. He pulls off his short, torso lithe, defined from practicing kendo for hours every day. He's smaller and thinner than me, but he looks much stronger. I know he is.

Watching him pull the gym shirt on, I feel a strange fluttering in my stomach. He's facing half towards me and half away from me. I-

I want to touch him.

"Thanks for waiting, Hideaki," Arima says, sliding off the bench and locking his uniform in his locker. "You'll be on my team, right?" Of course. I wouldn't want to confuse the girls. They wouldn't know who to cheer for.

"Hideaki?" Arima's looking at me weirdly now. He does something he rarely ever does, reaches out and touches my shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

Of course he can't be late.

The teacher would forgive him anyway.

I'm hard.

The second day of midterms is more difficult than the first. The third is more difficult than the second.

Somehow, these thoughts, these words, are halting, hesitating in my head, not really wanting to let themselves out. I don't want anyone but me to know about this. I don't want Father to know. I don't want anyone to know, also, that I have doubts, too. I don't want to betray Arima by telling his secrets. Maybe, if Arima had a girlfriend, I wouldn't have really felt like this...

I'm drowsy, my favorite word, because it's late as usual, and since it's a school night I'm at home in my bed, my western-style cocoon that's the opposite of Arima's sparse eastern futon. The image comes suddenly unbidden to my head of Arima trying to fit in with me. It's only a single, and it's pushed up against the wall. He could sleep here, though, if he tried.

I force a laugh, thinking of his warmth trapped around my body, hair brushing against the bare skin I sleep in, Arima sprawled out beneath me. I take in a long, deep breath, steadying myself like I'm Zen or something, and can almost reach the feeling of Arima's porcelain skin under my fingers, flesh against flesh against sports callouses and muscle and bone, deep under the skin and holding us both together.

I imagine the words I'd like to tell him. That I don't know what's going to happen to me when high school's over. That once, I imagined getting old and fat and ugly and I almost threw up. That I need him. That I don't think he's a monster, no matter how much of himself he's never shown me. And if he is? Well, wouldn't that be interesting...

Arima, full of anger, dangerous, caught off balance. Focused, like diamonds, like steel, cold and warmth and Last. Final. Warning. No, I'm not afraid of you. You're a being made of want, just like the rest of us, behind any fronts you put up. Heat, possession, control, power, jealousy, claiming, _unleashed-_

I finally let myself search for the release I desire. My fingers, frozen in place before, start to move, search heavily over my body, flat planes and angles and boy, and I find what's hurting me, my gift, my shame. I take ahold, and let the night's imagination take ahold of me and take me where it will.

The door to my room opens and Arima walks in. He's in his uniform, all back, fading into the walls. I freeze where I am, dishevelled, sweaty, blankets tangled around me, bare. Arima's eyes are those of a demon as he glares at me, stalking to where I'm held bound, waiting, and he wants to die. He crawls onto the bed, makes his way to where he can look me in the eye, our faces a scarce foot apart, where I can see his need. Yes, he needs me. I'm the one he needs. Only me.

He kisses me, the thing he'd never, ever do in real life. He wants me to know him, to feel his rage against everything, his rage against himself for what he has to be. So I forget myself, my beliefs, memories, plans, my own name, take him instead, take what he needs to lose away from him. He kisses me, gently, shyly, sweet, and that's the end for me. I'm breathing hard, alone, spent, and anyone who's alone is lonely.

The last day of midterms is by far the easiest.

My father arrives on Saturday night. I wonder what he'll think of my midterm- if he even asks. I'm not sure if I want him to know or not. I've gone through enough trauma just finding out my results myself.

I was just hanging around with Aya-tachi. Arima was there, but he was studying and ignoring us. He's the only guy I know who studies just as much after the midterm as before it. Sakura and I were rating the girls that passed by on a one to ten scale, after I'd maintained, of course, that all girls are precious and beautiful. Rika and Aya were looking at this new play Aya's been writing. Rika was trying to convince her how good it was. Knowing Aya, it was probably completely amazing, but I never got a chance to see it.

There was a sudden rush of noise, and we all stopped. Kids were running into the classroom, even though it was still break. "I guess midterm results finally came in," Rika said slowly, and Arima left to check. Me and the girls just turned and looked at each other. Then in unison, we all let out a groan, rising to our feet, Sakura and I cursing under our breaths, and made our way after Arima. I hoped Arima wouldn't be too pissed off if I flunked. No, I was thinking of my father there, not my best friend. Arima does remind me of my dad, though.

Sakura and I pushed our way through the crowd, Rika and Aya following gingerly, hiding behind us as girls parted in our way like an intensely high-pitched, attractive red sea. Arima, who was already at the front, waved to us, grinning. I could see he'd made number one, of course. Like there had ever been any doubt that he would.

Then Arima had darted forward, and to my shock, was hugging me, hard. It's so uncharacteristic of him, I thought it couldn't be real at first- "Go, Hideaki!" Arima yelled. "I knew you could do it if you just tried!"

I didn't want him to let go, so I peered over his shoulder to see where I was. I was- number six? NUMBER FUCKING SIX?

I'm used to, like, 30.

It would have been impossible without Arima. I didn't make it, Arima did for me.

Everything's ready for my father. It's 8:00, he should be getting here soon. I think of Arima and steady myself, totally feeling the Zen love. I remember how happy Arima was, how proud of how our efforts had paid off. Maybe he'd like to be a teacher when he grows up. I know he's made up his mind to become a doctor, motivated a lot by the desire to make his family happy, but it made him really happy to help me. It's so amazing when he truly smiles.

I hear the doorbell ring. Somehow even that sounds like my father, stiff and dry, cautious. I take a deep breath, deep breath therapy, then inspect myself in the mirror. Hair he thinks is too long, but no earring, and my clothes are formal, blue button-down and dress pants to welcome a guest into my home. He won't be disappointed.

The door swings open way too easily. Just a little pull, and it's slamming against the wall next to it and bouncing back, like it's lighter than usual, like someone hollowed it out and didn't tell me. He's right there, unchanged except the more expensive suit he wears and the additional gray in his dark hair. I break the silence, and somehow, my face is pushed up in a smile as I invite him inside.

He looks around, making himself at home as he walks in. At least the place is clean, that's what he's thinking. He casts his gaze onto me next, raking me in from head to toe, but so painfully differently than girls do. I wonder if he's surprised.

"Is there dinner?" he finally asks, putting his suitcase down on the couch and looking away from me. Of course. He's ashamed of me, right? He wishes I wasn't his son, that I'd never been born, and he's only with me now because he has a use for me-

"Yeah," I finally nod, "It's on the table. I made wasabi." It's his favorite. He looks at me sharply, and I pointedly don't say anything. I don't know any words, I'm horrible with things like those. All I can do is this.

There's an awkward silence between us as we sit. There are things we want to say to each other, but we're not sure how to say them. It could be worse. He seems civil enough though, but so detached. I won't show him that it hurts. The doorbell rings, and I automatically jump up to get it. I open the door and it's Arima.

"Hideaki," Arima says, grinning. "I just got out of kendo practice. I thought we could celebrate." He holds up a package, a gift he's brought. Aw, shit, shit, shit...

"Arima," I say, "My father's here."

Arima's eyes widen as he absorbs my words, eyes taking in the extra pairs of shoes at the doorway for the first time. "You said he was coming next week."

Oh, fuck. I had, hadn't I? I'd meant he was coming this week, but I'd been... distracted...

"Who's this?" Father asks, standing up and walking over to us. He tries to look around me to see who I'm receiving. It's always an inquisition with him.

And Arima decides, like I just knew he would, to try to stick it out and make the best of the situation. He steps past me and faces my father and bows perfectly. "I'm honored to finally meet you, sir."

Father stares at Arima, obviously taken aback. "You're..."

"Arima Soichiro," Arima says, and I want to kiss him. "Hideaki's my best friend." I want to. I've never- not anyone- but I want to.

"Oh," Father says, evaluating Arima too.

I smile, put an arm around Arima before I can stop myself. "He was number one scorer on the entrance exams and midterms. He's also a kendo champion." Arima nods modestly. Father's eyes widen, mouth falling open.

"May I have dinner with you?" Arima asks, and Father assents, as is only polite. Arima nods back. Nod nod nod, that's Arima. He's staying.

"Soichiro, I made wasabi sushi," I say. "I hope it's not too spicy for you."

"It's okay," Arima says, though he starts at what I call him. I find a chair for him in some closet, and he sits down with us Asabas. I've never used his given name before, but Father doesn't have to know that.

Arima isn't very good at handling spicy food. I have to slam his back a few times so he doesn't choke and die. Father seems to like the food I made, but he doesn't seem to be able to enjoy it. I let Arima hold up all the conversation, pestering him with questions to show him off to Father. He answers them as honestly as he can. Father listens to the answers, and I look to see what his reactions are, but I can't take my eyes off Arima otherwise.

Arima leaves right after dinner, the gift he brought still unopened. I see him out to the door and he stops to put his shoes back on, so we're alone there, and my father, unlike me, isn't the type of person to deliberately set out to eavesdrop.

"Hideaki, what are you doing?" Arima hisses.

I find myself staring into his eyes, dark and foreign. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I don't know what I'm doing."

Arima shakes his head. "Stop trying to use me to impress your father!" he snaps. His thoughts come so quickly to him. "I like you because you're not a drone, not that you could tell with how you're been acting tonight! You'll never resolve anything if you pretend like that! You say you always acted like a vapid thug, and now this! Why don't you try being yourself this visit and see where that gets you?"

No, if I did that, and Father really did hate me- and Arima doesn't know-

"Soichiro," I begin.

"Why are you calling me that?" Arima says. "Don't change your name for me just because of someone else." He leaves, and I go back into the apartment, but I can't get his words out of my head. Just try being myself? Yeah right. But-

"Sorry, dad," I mutter, and his gaze on me is like walking on hot coals, not that I've ever done that.

His head snaps up. "Sorry? Did you say sorry?"

I toss my head. "Whatever," I mutter. "Do you wanna see my midterm placings?"

"I'm afraid to," he mutters.

"Arima helped me," I say.

Father snorts, like he's going to pounce on some weakness. "Who knows what a good kid like him's doing hanging around with someone like you?"

I turn and glare at him, feeling a hurt explode in my chest. I can't believe him. He always does this. God, I hate him, I really do.

"Oh," he says, too, as if it's only natural. "Stop drooling over that boy. He's not interested. It makes you look like a cheap whore. I'm going to bed."

I get up early the next morning- early for me, that is. Father's still asleep. I'm going to a movie with Sakura-tachi at 9, so I have to be ready by quarter of eight. I make breakfast first, the traditional kind I hate, and put in a plastic container in the refrigerator. I put up a note announcing its presence there, then go into my bathroom. I'll be ready for my father.

I lean down, reach into the cabinet under the sink and pull out a bag, pull off the few clothes I'd been sleeping in and put on the bag's contents. Tight black jeans, low on my hips, white silk button-down, left unbuttoned at the top- Then the bag inside the bag- make-up. The eyeliner goes on first, darkness accentuating my eyes, makes me think of Arima. The circles I put around my eyes, blue and purple and black, bruise powder blending into my real veins, are Arima, too. I feel my stomach roll. I rub at it, disgusted, until the barest streaks, mere remnants, are left.

Last is the hardest. It's just a tube, a jar, but it's the hardest. I unscrew its container, smear it across my fingers, stare at them. Gloss. I'm a whore, huh? I'll give him a whore. I wipe it across my lips, wipe them together, look at myself. Shiny. The earring I put on is a real ruby. It was my mother's.

I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror I insisted on buying, tying up the black lace-up boots I'm wearing. I pull my hair back into a ponytail so Father won't miss Mother's jewel, then leave the bathroom. Is Father up? Yeah, he's eating my breakfast by now. He stops when he hears my footsteps, and the look on his face is priceless when he catches sight of me.

"Hey, Dad," I say, "I'm going out." As if cued, the doorbell rings, and it's Sakura-tachi. They all look great themselves, but Sakura's eyes bug out when she sees me, as do Aya and Rika's. They don't notice my father inside, watching.

We go down the street, listening to Rika tell us about this kimono she's making, and it is interesting, especially since Rika doesn't usually talk much. It's hard to concentrate, though, when the street is so different. Even more girls are checking me out than usual, and, I realize with a start, boys, too. I mean, some guys are standing together, carrying tennis bags, probably deciding where to go. You know, athletes, just joking with each other, and then when we walk past, they start staring at me. And they're not look-at-the-freak stares, that's for sure. Aya can't stop giggling about it. It's not like her.

We get to the movie theater, one of Sakura's favorites. When we approach the door, Arima's waiting for us there. What?

"Hideaki?" Arima does an almost comic double-take.

"Oh, Arima's coming too?" I say stupidly. Rika nods.

"Come on, we gotta get good seats!" Sakura yells, and begins to pull us toward the ticket counter. Since it's Sakura with the death grip on us, we all have no choice but to acquiesce.

Rika buys a boatload of snacks for our group to share. We're seeing this new action movie that's pretty popular, so Aya runs off to make sure our seats don't suck, because Sakura's gone off to do God knows what. Arima has to go to the bathroom and takes me with him. He doesn't have to, though, when we're inside. Do you understand what I mean?

There's no one else in here, all the stall doors hanging open. Suddenly the stud in my ear stings, my jeans are too tight on my legs, exposed skin of my chest self-conscious, cold. I cross my arms over my ribs, sharp and jutting under the thin shirt I'm wearing. Arima's dressed like a normal person, but he's still unbelievably attractive. I turn to look at him defiantly. What, does he have something to say to me? He should just get it over with, then.

Arima and I face each other, square off like two longtime rivals. I picture the two of us fighting. Goody-two shoes. I'd kick his sorry ass. The movie theater would really be a good place for it, too. Yeah, let's spill some blood.

Arima breaks the silence, and I feel as though he's above me, at some position of lofty superiority. "Hideaki, what the hell is this?"

And it's easy, all too easy to tell him the words I haven't been able to stop thinking, haven't been able to escape from. "What do you think of me like this?"

Arima shrugs, stares at me uncomfortably. "Different."

"My father called me a whore," I say.

He breathes out hard, looks at me unhappily. "You're not, Hideaki." He understands what that feels like, but-

"That's all," I say. "For that, I want to hurt him."

"You're not going to try to reconcile after all?" Arima frowns. "You still do have a chance, you know." That's true. Arima's real father's dead.

I shrug, realize that I'm not standing as far away from him as I'd thought. I look at my reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror. If I'm going to say something anytime, now is-

I laugh hard, nasty, take a step towards Arima. "Do you like me like this?" I ask, and I'm confident.

Arima's confused. "I'm saying," I continue, reckless voice lowering, "That I can have anyone I want. Like this, would even you want me, Arima?"

Up close, Arima's just like a scared little boy. There's no difference at all. I bite my lip, tasting bittersweet strawberries, and open my mouth to speak again.

"Arima?"

The door to the bathroom squeaks, opening up to let some other guy in. Arima takes that opportunity to push past the boy and make his way out. The kid's a gaijin, handsome, and he's taken aback by Arima as my freshman friend storms past him.

"Don't waste your time," I say, "He's straight," and watch the gaijin's eyes widen, and take that opportunity to push past him, too.

The movie's pretty good. Sakura definitely enjoys it the most. She's really charged up even when we're walking out, punching imaginary opponents and crowing victoriously. We part ways there, the girls all having things to work on, Arima walking in the opposite direction after a quick goodbye. I roll my eyes, raise a hand to my lips and wipe them off disgustedly. My hand comes away glittery. I lean against an alley wall and wipe and wipe and spit on my eyes until they're clean. With glistening fingers, I do up all but one of my shirt's buttons. There, I'm myself. I take the earring out and shove it in my jeans pocket, pull the tie out of my hair and let it free around my face again. That's better.

Someone touches my shoulder to get my attention. It's not Arima, it's that gaijin who liked him. He is so not getting my best friend's phone number from me, thank you very much.

"Hey," Gaijin says, and at least he doesn't have too bad an accent. What he has isn't very noticeable if you're not looking for it. Nope, still not helping him ask out Arima, sorry.

"What?" I ask, making sure to let all the disdain I have for him show. I don't even look at him, reading the signs of shops, promising love potions and Chinese herbal remedies for everything from impotence to small breasts. Come on, I wanna go home and torture my father some more.

"I'm Josh," he says.

Does he want me to congratulate him for it or what? "Asaba Hideaki," I say grudgingly. "What do you want?"

Josh shifts, leans back against the brick, and I can see him blushing, getting flustered. Oh, great, he's shy. I wish he'd just spit it out.

"What school do you go to?" he asks.

"Hokuei," I answer automatically. What is this, twenty questions? He should ask Arima that himself.

He nods. "Eh, St. Clarence's..."

"Did I say I wanted to know?" I ask, as rudely as I possibly can.

Josh groans, sighs, shoves a hand behind his head and winces. "Listen, I just-" He shoves a piece of paper at me. I unfold it. It's- a phone number?

"Maybe we could do something together sometime," he says quietly, looking at his feet, then runs off before I can say anything.

When I get home, Father's doing some paperwork. He looks up, studies me. I sneer at him, think of Arima, and my face sags down again. I go into my room and change into my normal comfortable clothes. It's maybe almost lunchtime, so I'll be cooking for him soon. I have homework to do. I go sit in a chair near him.

How could I go about just acting like myself?

I pick up the piece of paper the teacher gave me with my midterm placing and hand it to him without a word. He turns his gaze down onto it and reads it. I wait. He looks up and stares at me. Everyone's staring at me today. Now it's like he's never seen me before either.

"These are very good," he finally says, voice marveling. "For you, these are incredible."

"Arima helped me," I say. "I'm in love with him. Would you like some sushi rolls for lunch?"

I walk out of the living room without waiting for a reply and begin the mechanical motions of cooking. I smile at all the posters of cute girls adorning the kitchen walls. Ah, Utada Hikaru, she's one of my favorites. I put one of her CD's in my Walkman and set it for track 3. A beat starts up, and I push the headphone jack in and pull the pads over my ears.

Someone- Father- knocks on the door to the kitchen. "Yeah?" I yell, nonchalant. It's hard to hear myself over Hikaru-chan.

Father looks as though he'd just been told Japan declared war on him or something. His face is slack, like I've finally driven him into the early grave he's always said I would. I start to sing along with Hikaru-chan, aishiteru, aishiteru, aishiteru, drumming the beat out on the pot of boiling water I'm watching over. I do that a lot. I've gotten very good at not being burned.

"You said- that you-"

Be myself and see where that takes us, huh, Arima? I'm trusting you with a lot here, Arima.

"Yeah," I say, and feel a real, irrational anger start in me. "It's not easy, you know. It's not like he likes me or anything. If it's up to me he won't ever know for real."

Father studies me, and the realization hits me- I'm getting just a little sick of fighting. Because- a thousand things. Because his dedication to his work is just like Arima's. Because it isn't his fault Mother died, I have to face that sometime. He did love her. I've tried to deny it so, so much, but he did.

"That boy?" he finally says slowly. "He's the one you-"

"Yep," I say cheerfully, nonchalantly. "I'm bi. You wanna sit down?" Stupid Father looks like he's gonna faint.

He does as I ask, falling into a folding chair in the corner, clutching onto the flimsy metal like it's the last thing between him and madness. "You're-"

"Bi," I say impatiently. "Yeah, I know you hate me messing around with all these girls, and I'm not gonna stop, because that's what I love. But Arima's what's important to me."

He doesn't say anything, and today really is a weird day, and I plow ahead. "I'm gonna keep my grades up if Arima and I stay friends. I really like art, I'm gonna be in a special class for people who are good at it, and I am good, that might be what I wanna do. I'm sorry." I scowl, turn away. I should try to stop hating you.

Maybe I'm playing some games I don't understand today.

"I'm not a whore," I spit, and my voice doesn't tremble at all.

I turn my Walkman back on, go back to cooking. Father stays, but I ignore him. If he hates me, I hate him. But-

It's so simple and awful and I want to be wanted, want to have my worth validated, want to be able to live my life and succeed and do what I like and have people want to be around me. I want to stay shallow and petty and fun and never, ever change. I don't want anyone to hate me anymore. I want my Merryland. I want Mom to be alive again. Yeah, I do care about your opinion, only I could never acknowledge it, but I'm basing myself around Arima, and he hates me this way too. And I want to do it-

Explosion.

Come on, Arima, let's do it. Let's dirty ourselves. Let's give ourselves up. Let's become one. Let's forget. Why don't we go down somewhere, your place my place, and we'll do what we want, not what's right or wrong or funny or safe or smart or stupid or in character, because we're all actors presenting faces to the world, to other people, to the camera, and sometimes we are those characters, and sometimes we aren't, and if you don't look at it from my point of view you'll never know, and when it's all said and done, let's shock whoever's watching. Let's give that delicate old prude a heart attack.

I love you, and you don't love me. And I don't even know you, but I want to be the one you care about, the one you think about, obsess over, get jealous over, get angry over, hurt over. There's no one in between us, no one in our way but ourselves, but YOU, and-

I'm nothing to you. I don't matter to you. I'm not your type. You just can't see me that way. You can't think of me like that. You only like me as a friend. You're not interested in having a relationship right now. You think I'm joking, that I'm not serious. You don't care that I am, because you'll never get out of yourself.

Father, will you stop rejecting me?

Hey, Arima, let's do it. Come on. It's nothing between friends. Experimentation, stress relief. No one has to know. Come on, aren't I hot? Haven't you even thought about it, even considered it just once? Come on, with the way I look at you, the things the girls say about us, the way I know I look, the way you're all alone at night and you want someone there with you and it hurts and your world's there pushing up and you're too scared?

Hey, Arima. Let's do it. We'll both stay in character, be perfectly like ourselves. I'll complain and brag and flaunt myself. I'll drape myself over you, tease you, frustrate you, confuse you, embarrass you, cross the lines no one's ever dared to before. I'll look at you like you're the only person in the entire world who matters. I'll whisper words in your ear that you've never even dared to think before. I'll set you loose, make you angry, jealous, as if I was something to be jealous of, make you want to hurt me. I'll let you hurt me. I'll let you take me, I'll take you, take you so deep inside me that no one will ever find you, that other you that you hate and love so much. I'll suck you off, blow you, send you swirling and begging and crying and simple. I'll be your whore, because you're the only part of me I've ever liked. Because you're my friend, I'll give you the only thing I have to give.

I like this song. I really like this, like it so much I'm constantly booming it across the apartment, have been all day. It's driving Father insane. It's like "C'est la vie!" The words are, "I have my reasons for being myself... You have your reasons for being yourself."

Father and I have lunch, and I listen to him tell me about a deal he's in the process of negotiating. I actually listened. He keeps sneaking these little glances at me to see if I'm for real.

I wait to yell all the things I want to yell at him until I'm alone in my room and no one can hear me.


	3. Reasons

Author's Notes- Three things.

1. I realized that some parts of the last chapter were very Evangelion. I'm glad, because they are both Gainax, and I think Kare Kano needs a little more Evangelion in it.

2. The song C'est La Vie was written by Iwaso Yuuho and sung by Komatsu Ayaka for Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon. The title of this chapter refers to its lyrics.

3. Yeah, I'm gonna have fun with this.

Model Student

Chapter 3- Reasons

Arima's home when I call him. The phone rings once, twice, then his distinctive voice announces that it's the Arima residence. I grip the wireless tighter in my hand, teeth gritting against the dirty plastic. "Arima, this is Asaba," I finally admit. "Can we talk?"

Silence. I squirm in my seat, and my father, doing paperwork in the next room, gives me a disapproving look. Damn, trying to patch things up doesn't mean I'm gonna do whatever he wants for the rest of my life. I wiggle some more just for good measure.

"Sure," Arima says. "Hold on, I have to switch phones." There's some static, then a click. Footsteps, and Arima's back. "Sorry about that."

I reach onto a shelf and grab a gift a girl just gave me from her Spanish vacation, a black bull plushie named Pedro. I stare into its cartoon eyes and decide its Arima. What should I say to you, Arima?

"I've decided to make up with my father," I say, and it's true.

"For real?" Arima asks, and I can feel him frowning, can picture creases appearing in his forehead as his eyes narrow.

"Yeah," I say, "Honest. Listen... I'm sorry. About yesterday, and what I said." Today's Monday, but we have it off, so I won't be seeing him. "I'm sorry about it." Then I find my voice, and Arima must have to jump back from the receiver with the racket I start making.

"Oh, please, Arima, don't hate me! You're my best friend!" I howl. "I'll die without you! I won't have any reason to live! I'll kill myself! I've got a knife and a razor and beer and pills and a big gun and-"

"Hideaki!" Arima yells, cutting off my whining and suicide threats abruptly. My father looks mortified from where he's watching, like if I committed seppuku he'd gladly join me. "Hideaki, it's okay. We are still friends, and we can talk it over."

"Oh, thank you, Arima! You've made my life worth living again!" Sniff, sniff.

"Oh, for God's sake-" an almost affectionate groan. "You're such an idiot, Hideaki."

I walk out of the living room and into the kitchen so I don't have Father as an audience anymore. "Okay," I say finally. It's awkward now that the pain and subsequent relief have started to fade. Arima clears his throat, and I know he's feeling just as weird as I am. God, it's not like I even tried anything- "Listen, can we just forget about it?" I say quickly, even though my stomach heaves at my own words. "Forget I ever said anything- that it even happened?"

Did I give it away? Does he know that I-

I can't afford to lose him.

"Alright," Arima says, and it's a victory, even though I want to throw up.

C'est la vie...

The new art class Hayasaka put me in starts the first day of the second week, the Monday after that one. When it's time for art, he takes me aside from Class A and directs me to a different classroom. I leave to a backdrop of whispers and speculation, just the way I like it. It takes me longer than I'd anticipated just to find the place. It's tucked away in some corner of the seniors' wing. I'm the last one to arrive.

There are four kids and a teacher. The teacher and all but one of the kids are girls, none of whom I recognize, though the teacher and the biggest girl are both really cute. I recognize the boy, if only for the way he starts glaring at me like he wants me dead when I enter the room. He's a senior, Miyamoto Kyo- he's on the kendo team with Arima. I think I stole his girlfriend once. Ah, it's hard to keep track of these things, you know?

Everyone's moved their desks into a circle. There's an empty one left for me to take, fortunately next to the young, pretty teacher, but not so happily right aside Miyamoto. The teacher says that since I've finally arrived, we can get started.

We go around in a circle and introduce ourselves. The teacher's Wakato-san. The girls, respectively, are Chihiro, Risa, and Arisu- I don't bother to memorize their surnames. Arisu already has a guy she's going with, though she thinks I'm cute. Risa's single and likes me a good deal more than Arisu. Chihiro, the cute one, is gay. Yeah, just by looking at looking at people, I can tell these things.

Wakato-sensei flips her hair over her shoulder, a slick move that distracts me for a moment. She orders us to take out our portfolios, and the other four immediately comply, reaching into their bags and withdrawing manila folders. My mind's blank. Portfolios? We're supposed to have portfolios?

"Asaba-kun, please take out your portfolio," Wakato-sensei frowns.

"What portfolio?" I ask. Miyamoto snorts.

"It said in all the packets," Chihiro says, and rolls her eyes, though she does look sympathetic. "You're supposed to have some art to show us."

"Oh," I wince. Like I read a single one of those things. "Eh, sorry?"

Miyamoto doesn't even try to hide his derisive snort of laughter this time. I cross my arms and sulk, pouting rather adorably at Wakato-sensei. The disappointment and annoyance on her face all but disappears.

"Oh, it's okay, Asaba-kun," she says sweetly. "You can just bring yours next time."

There's a brief pause, in which Risa smiles at me, Chihiro checks her watch, Arisu checks her cell phone for messages, and Miyamoto gets this look on his face like I just boned his grandma.

There are gonna be some long, long classes.

I have lunch with Arima and the girls. Sakura, Rika, and Aya just won't stop chattering about something Arima and I are clueless about, some incomprehensible project Class F's doing, so Arima and I are pretty much alone.

"Hey, Arima, you know Miyamoto from the kendo club?"

"Yeah," Arima nods, smiles. "He's good. Why?"

I scratch my head, and Arima and I are comfortable together again. "Did I steal his girlfriend?"

Arima blinks, considers for a second, so I explain. "He's in that art class I told you about, and he totally hates me. Like, more than guys usually do. So did I steal his girl or what? You know _I _can't remember these things."

Arima thinks, then nods. "Well, yeah, sort of. I think his boyfriend broke up with him because of you, because he had a crush on you or something. That's how the gossip went in the locker room. I think they'd been together for a few years, too."

"Eh?" I groan. "Shoulda known. If he's a good artist, I guess it's obligatory for him to be like that."

"Like you're one to talk," Arima snickers.

"Hey," I protest. "I'm not gay. I'm bi!"

Sakura, Rika, and Aya fall dead silent, turning around slowly and going completely white. "What?" Aya finally chokes out. Arima raises an eyebrow at me, clearly amused. I shrug. Rika chokes on her rice, so Sakura starts pounding her on the back.

"I'm bi," I say. "What, you didn't know?"

In the effortless unison longtime friends often attain, "NO!"

I shrug again, even more nonchalantly. "I just appreciate beauty wherever I find it," I explain. "I'm not so uptight to be exclusive to one gender. I just like girls a lot better, and most of the time, I hate boys, because they're so annoying, and not many are really cute. Few of them are beautiful enough for a second glance, you know? But I couldn't ever see myself being exclusive for a girl, so... But not even liking the female gender? Talk about narrow-minded." I'm getting pretty philosophical here. Wow.

Arima laughs. Apparently, he'd already known, a thought that makes me kinda uneasy. "I don't think people have much of a choice in the matter, Hideaki."

Sakura squints at me, then leans forward and flicks my nose. I let out a squeal of indignance. "Asapin," she deadpans, Rika and Aya forming ranks behind her, and it's inquisition time.

"If you'd only ever date a real bishounen," she asks, and I nod with her cautiously, "What do you think about Arima?"

Huh? I can feel myself turning a very unflattering shade of red. "Arima?" I grin, shake my head, wondering if they're yaoi fangirls at heart. "Ah, if only," I sigh, oh-so-tragically. "Alas, 'twas never meant to be. My Arima spurns me time and again. I am nothing to his frozen heart."

I fall into an ungainly heap and begin to sob. "I'm (sniff) beginning to (sniff) think he's asexual! Oh, I'm so alone in the world!"

Rika puts a supportive arm around me. Sakura and Aya, too smart not to get the joke of my theatrics, both crack up. Arima smacks me on the head, and the way he dramatically rolls his eyes in return makes me think of Chihiro.

When the girls finally recover, Sakura slaps me on the back, causing me to start hacking. I nearly choke on my vegetables. "Aw, man, Asapin, I almost pissed myself!" she laughs.

"You know, though," Aya says, creative as always, casting a speculative look over us. "Two boys together isn't half bad."

Sakura giggles, but Rika looks scandalized- then even she ends up grinning. I'm completely in my element. Is Arima blushing? My head whips around, incredulous- no, it has to be my imagination. He can't think anything from joking around, can he? He has no idea what I might really feel. It's funny.

Some other kids from different classes, especially A, have started watching, attracted by our shrieking and hysterics, whispering to each other. Yeah, this is my place. Suck it up, Arima.

I grin, cut off a piece of strawberry shortcake from Rika's bento, crumbs and dense juicy ripe berries and swirls of whipped ream and sugar and moist vanilla, pick it up with my fingers and lean towards Arima. "Open up, A-ri-ma..."

He stares at me for a second, expression implacable, then he smirks, a predatory grin that makes my knees weak, and parts his lips for me. He leans over towards me, bites down on the cake and strawberries, juice spewing onto his lips, and he lets me feed him the sweet. Everyone around us is quiet. He licks the red off his mouth slowly, dark pink tongue flicking out, then begins to suck my fingers clean of whipped cream, circling them softly. I feel light-headed, blood leaving my head. Then he leans back, my hand slipping away from him, and there's whispers again, louder than before. Sakura-tachi are all starry-eyed.

"You're welcome," I say, more softly than I intended, and I'm not sure who I'm saying it to.

At least everyone's looking at me now.

I face Miyamoto, having caught up to him after our second art class. There are some things we gotta get straight between us.

"So you hate me," I say, playing with a strand of my hair. "Because your boyfriend dumped you for me, right?"

Miyamoto glares at me, looks like he's gonna hit me, and that's a more affirmative response than any he could've spoken. I roll my eyes, Chihiro Arima Father, and study him, lick my lips. Man, wonder if anyone's ever told him how sexy he is when he's angry...

"Listen," I say, fixing my eyes on his so he can't possibly misunderstand. "I don't even know who your boyfriend is. It's not my fault if he chose me over you, because I probably haven't even met him. If he's that kinda person, you're probably better off without him. I'm not even into dating guys. Capiche?"

Miyamoto gapes at me, and I stay haughty, smug. "Satisfied?"

Before I can do anything, Miyamoto's fist has slammed into my stomach and I'm seeing actual fucking stars. Shit. Ow. "What the hell was that for?" I gasp out, wind knocked clean out of me. If he doesn't have a good reason for that, I'll so give him the fight he's aching for.

OW.

Miyamoto sneers at me, and despite himself he doesn't just look pissed off, he also seems really upset. "That's a load of shit. If you're gonna lie, make it something more convincing!"

"What do you mean, lying!" I yell back.

Miyamoto gives me a really hateful glare. "As if you don't know! Like everyone in the whole school hasn't seen the way you drool over Arima Soichiro!"

For a second, it feels like my lungs have stopped working. Miyamoto clenches his fist, and I don't know if he's gonna try to hit me again, except I don't see why he would, since he just slammed me harder than his fist could ever have.

I leer back at him and gather myself together again. "Arima? Are you kidding? I'm just using him to get girls. The sucker thinks I'm his friend, but I'm not even that. Nevermind sex, he doesn't mean anything at all to me!"

There's a small, polite sound emitted from behind us, a familiar cough that makes every part of my body freeze, choke up. Miyamoto and I turn, and Arima is behind us, hands gripping his student council folder so tightly they're white.

"May I get through?" he asks, voice the most pleasant I've ever heard it be.

"A-Arima-" My voice doesn't sound like me at all.

Miyamoto steps aside and Arima walks past us. He doesn't look back. I try to call out, try to go after him, but I can't. Somehow, I just can't. And Miyamoto sees the expression on my face.

Wakato-sensei wanders out of the classroom, flipping through the huge binder she's carrying, then stops when she sees us. "Oh, why aren't the two of you in class?"

I don't see Arima for the rest of the day. He doesn't return to class and doesn't have lunch in any place I can find him. Whenever I ask, I'm told he's at some committee meeting or something. I go to the kendo room after school and find out that he's skipped practice. I can't believe this.

I take the subway home, my college friends watching me mope in silence. One of them tries to ask what's wrong, but I snap at her so sharply for it none of them try to help me again.

Father isn't home when I get back. I know he'll come in within a few minutes. I call an okonomiyaki delivery and order some food that way. I don't feel like cooking tonight. They'll drop it off in maybe half an hour.

I stare at the one address I have taped to the fridge, Arima's mansion, then put my shoes back on, start trying to remember which subway route will take me there the quickest. I scribble out a note for my father: Psychological crisis. Had mental breakdown. Look for me in nearest home for criminally insane. -Hideaki

It takes maybe ten minutes to reach his street by underground. I check my watch countless times while waiting. My hand is cold against my wrist, long fingers playing with the clasp nervously. For the first time in years, my pianist hands feel awkward.

Arima's house seems even huger than it did before. When I ring the doorbell, Arima's mother is the one to answer. I tell her I'm here to see him and she lets me in without question. At least he didn't tell her to say he's not home. He might just have forgotten to.

Finding the way to Arima's room is easy, even though his home's totally different from a normal house. I wouldn't ever forget something like that, see, and it feels like his room's the center of the house, anyway, the gravitational center drawing everyone else in.

I push the door open slowly, turning the knob so cautiously it's as if I've been relegated to slow motion. Despite my efforts the door squeaks, much to my eternal wanting-to-sink-into-a-hole-in-the-ground-ness. Arima's sitting at his desk, staring down at a pile of textbooks. None of them are even open.

"Arima?" I ask, making my way in. He looks up and his face is blank and I HATE myself- "Uh, it's okay if I come in, right?"

Arima nods, sighs, pushes the books aside, turns to look at me, face so painfully empty I feel my words freezing in my throat. "I- I didn't want you to hear that," I finally begin, and know it's the wrong thing to say the moment it leaves my mouth.

"Oh," Arima says blandly. "I think I'd need to know something like that, though."

I feel like, one misstep and I'll be plummeting off some Arima cliff. "I was lying," I moan. "I didn't mean it."

"Alright," Arima says, and turns away from me. He doesn't even believe me.

"I'm sorry, dammit!" I snap, patience ending, hating that all of this, all of myself that I'm putting out gets no response from him. "You should know I don't feel like that! Say something!"

Arima looks at me, still calm, and I wish I could dismiss him for it. "What do you want from me?"

I reach out and try to grab his shoulder. He pushes my hand away. I draw myself up and try to spit at him. "Fine!" I yell. "I'll leave, and I won't come back! I did lie about liking you! I hate you! I hate you even more than my father! What I said was true! You can just stay alone forever!"

I'm saying the same things I did before, only this time on purpose, because I'm hurting, and if I can hurt him, he won't know I-

If I'm going to be rejected, I'll be rejected for someone I'm not, not who I am really!

And this time, we're completely, perfectly alone. Arima gets us from where he's sitting, begins to stalk toward me, as slowly as you could ever imagine, then he's pushed me back onto the bed and his hands have snaked around my neck and are pressing and I know what he's doing but I don't stop him because I'm not even aware, everything is him and him only

"Arima?" I whisper, and he's too close again. I get to see his face finally broken open, a block of ice smashed with a sword. He's someone else again. I can barely think, not because I'm scared, not because he's gonna hurt me, but because it's him, finally.

"I won't let you," he finally breathes out, voice uncontrolled, restrained no longer, low and husky, shaky, dark, and I can feel his fury through his skin, the pressure of his muscles underneath, the burst of miserable darkness. "I won't let you go," he hisses. "You belong to me! You're my friend, mine! I don't care what you think of me, but I won't let you!"

I don't say anything, just breathe in and out and he's so warm through both our uniforms, and I had no idea touch could feel like this, had no idea a human body was this full of heat.

His words-

Is this what I wanted from him?

He cares if I'm here. He actually cares whether or not I exist.

I open my mouth- "Shut up," Arima growls, and his hands tighten, and it does hurt now. "Shut UP, Hideaki."

Every effect has a cause.

I'm afraid.

And Arima presses closer, and then I can see the shock in his black, black eyes as against his thigh he feels something hard. I stare up at him, watch him understand. He's the smartest person I've ever met.

We don't move, though there's something different on his face, pressure letting off. I don't know whether to scream or smile. "Is this the part where you confess?" Arima asks dully.

I laugh, lick my lips, shift so I can reach his hands, pull them off my shoulders. "Confess what?"

Then he's laughing, too, and I think we're both so relieved and so scared all at the same time.

"I'm sorry I said those things," I blurt, say it because it has to be said. "You do know how important you are to me, right? You believe me?"

Arima draws himself up, and his leg brushes between mine as he moves. I start, a gasp escaping my lips from the exquisite sensation. "I do now," he says, and we start laughing again.

His eyes have cleared, so I smirk and reach into my pants pocket. "Sorry," I say, deliberately, snicker. "Keys," I say, and dangle them off my fingers, one gold, two silver.

He giggles, so I hug him, he hugs me back, I can feel his smile.

"You were jealous?" I ask, snuggling against him. God, it feels so wonderful, I can't imagine how anything could feel better than this. He lets me enfold him in my arms, since I think we're both kinda shell shocked or whatever. I mean- guys usually wouldn't, but he's letting me. "You care if I like you or not?"

"I trusted you," Arima says.

"You were jealous?" I ask.

"Jealous of what?" he shoots back, speaking into my neck. "What, did you tell that boy those things because you want him?"

"Miyamoto?" I can feel myself twitching. "No way. I hadn't even thought of that. Ugh."

"No girls?" Arima asks. "No boys, either?"

"'Course not," I say, lifting my hand to stroke his hair, other one feeling down his side, the curve of his back. Like aftershocks I can see waves of rage still sweeping his face, pathos. "You?" I ask.

"There's nobody," Arima says. "If I met anyone, I'd tell you."

"So I'm the only one you-"

Arima nods.

"Same," I breathe.

Arima turns, looks at me suddenly, coughs. "Don't get nervous, okay, Hideaki. I don't mean it in a bad way. We're not like that, you know? I'm not after your ass like everyone else."

I let myself collapse into him, scrunching my eyes shut as tight as they'll go.

---

fade-

out.

---

I walk back into my apartment, dropping my keys onto the pedestal. Father looks up. "So you and Arima made up," he says.

I stare at him for a second, then whisper, "What business of yours is it?"

"Excuse me," he says after a second's dead silence. "What did I just hear you say, you stupid little boy?"

"I said that it's none of your concern, right?" I snap.

Father gets up and hits me. I fall back into the chair he just vacated and am quiet.

---

I reach into my pocket and pull out a piece of paper. Reading off its contents, I dial Josh the gaijin's number into my wireless phone.

It rings once, and I hang up.

---

I see Father off at the end of the three weeks he's stayed at my house. We part the same way we always do, an argument.

---

The En-

---

Just kidding! You really think I'd do that? End it so soon? I mean, me? I mean, this is a story about me! Me! It's the best kinda story! Heh heh. So even if things get weird sometimes, everything's still cool. So this is gonna go on a bit longer. I don't really care if anyone like Arima's reading it. I've always been my own best audience.

Besides, there are some pretty interesting characters in this story I haven't told you about yet. First is Shibahime Tsubasa, one of my favorite people in the entire world. But things weren't exactly peaches and roses and stuff between us at the beginning, you know...

---

I didn't tell him I was gonna do it. I wanted it to be a surprise. I hope he doesn't hate it. I hope he doesn't think I'm stupid now. I stare at my reflection in one of the windows of the art classroom, tilt my head, squint at myself. Miyamoto elbows me. "Hey, Asapin, Wakato-sensei called on you."

Huh? "Thanks," I whisper back, and look towards the lesson again.

"Pay attention, Asaba-kun," Wakato says severely, and Risa gives me a sympathetic look.

"Sorry," I mutter, and normally I'd just roll my eyes at a teacher who called me off like that, but I'm actually interested in this stuff. I like art, and art class is fun, but I can't concentrate today. Wish I could, so maybe I'll start trying to harder, though that actually implies me working, which is a totally foreign concept, lemme tell you.

In a few minutes, Wakato leaves early. If it hadn't been first thing in the morning, I would have definitely made some crack about her going off to see her boyfriend. Or girlfriend, or whatever. Arisu-tachi and I are left to pack up our new supplies together. I think we're starting to form a sort of group, the five of us, albeit a very understated, weird one. We all have something in common, though, which probably should be linking us together.

"Oh, Asapin, I love your hair!" Arisu exclaims the moment Wakato leaves. "If that's what you're worried about, you shouldn't be."

"Really?" I blink. I'm actually unsure about this, I'm not pretending to be to get ego-boosting reassurances like people often do, like I've done so much in the past. "I mean..."

"It fits you," Chihiro says dryly. "Reflects your brains."

"Hey!"

I look at the others. Risa hands me something. It's a sketch of the new me, radiant streaks of color across her off-white canvas paper. "I like it too," she says, still a bit shy.

"Chihiro's right," Miyamoto nods. "Asapin's always been a dumb blonde in his soul, so why shouldn't he really be one now?"

I begin to stew in my seat. "Oi!" I protest. They all have a good laugh at my expense.

"We just tease you 'cause you're so cool, Asapin," Chihiro says, pushing her last pencil into her overstuffed bag and getting up. "See you, everyone. Kyo, tell Mamo-kun I said hi."

"Sure," Miyamoto says. "He's got a killer crush on you, you know."

Chihiro groans, stalking out dramatically and sighing, "Boys."

I leave the room with the others, checking my reflection in every surface I can find. Risa and Arisu leave for their room, but since Miyamoto and I are going in the same direction we walk together. Miyamoto's walking funny, since he got a bad hit to the knee sparring a few days ago. He feels compelled to fill our silence with words. I'm glad he's decided to give me a chance, but it's still kinda awkward.

"You know," Miyamoto says, taking on his I'm-your-knowledgeable-sempai tone, which I hadn't even known he had until now, "Arima's not gonna stop liking you if he doesn't like your hair."

My feet falter and I nearly trip over them, feeling meaningless syllables of indignation spill over my lips. Am I that transparent? "None of your business," I say haughtily. Miyamoto always gets me defensive, probably because even though we're kind-of friends now, he seems to consider my relationship with Arima his business. Sempai suck.

Miyamoto grins conspiratorially, and it's a sign of the state of our newfound camaderie that I want to hit him a lot more than I did when we were rivals. "Come on, I know you've got at a least a thing for the ice prince. After that incident we had, you can't hide it..." he trails off.

"So what if I do," I say grumpily. I wish he didn't know. I wish no one knew, or even guessed. "I don't care what he thinks about my hair!" I got highlights because I thought he might like them.

"If you like someone, you know," Miyamoto prods, a point of contention already old between us, "You shouldn't be ambivalent about it." I'm surprised I actually know what ambivalence is. "I know it's more complicated with friends, but initial feelings don't really indicate much. And even straight or crooked or whatever doesn't really mean much these days, neh? I'm just saying-"

"Oh," I snap, "Because all that worked so well with Tsuyoshi." Tsuyoshi's the guy he hated me over. Miyamoto's got a hell of a temper, so I thought he might try to hit me for saying that, and I'm not sure if I'm glad or annoyed that he doesn't.

"Whatever," Miyamoto says, shrugging. "I'm just saying the way you act with that guy isn't like you, Asapin." Like he knows me at all. "And," he grins, and sometimes he's too charming for his own good, "He'll like your hair, kid."

I hate it when he calls me that.

Class F went on a field trip by themselves today, so it's just Arima and I at lunch. It's raining pretty hard outside, sky a foreboding slash of charcoal, so we're all inside. Somehow, Arima and I have some classroom all to ourselves. I don't think I feel anything in particular about that.

Arima'd stared at me when he got his first good look at me today, and he stares at me now as I unpack my bento and sprawl out in a chair, propping my feet up on a desk dangerously close to his food. I don't have the patience to wait for him to say anything about it.

"So what do you think of it?" I ask, touching my highlighted hair to show what I'm talking about.

Arima keeps staring at me for a few more seconds, so long I become uncomfortable, shifting in the precarious position I've perched myself in, then gets up and walks behinds me, so he's standing above me and I'm staring up at him. "I like it," he says, runs a hand through it, color struck through by the flickering flourescent lights. "It's just like gold. The light makes it like the sun."

I feel that dangerous feeling in my chest again and try to squish it. I can't. I didn't know Arima ever talked like that.

"Thanks," I grin up at him, enjoying the feel of his hand caressing my head. "I got it because of you."

"Eh?" Arima says. "What do you mean?"

"I wanted to stick out," I say, try to put my feelings through my smile, and feel so lucky.

I turn to snag a little octopus from Arima's box, and there's someone standing at the door, watching us. Her hair's the color mine was, honeyed dirty blonde, and I think for a second she's someone's little sister from elementary school, she's so small and cute. Her face is like a porcelain doll's, but the look on that face makes me uneasy, makes me unable to appreciate her like a normal girl. It's Arima's look, discontent, maybe, but more. She's angry.

Arima asks me what's wrong, and when I turn back to the door she's gone, just like some movie. But I know she wasn't a spirit or anything like that, so I'll probably be seeing her soon. She looks like a total brat.

Thank God Arima likes it.

Arima and I are walking to his kendo practice, cutting through one of the school's yards, when we meet the girl again. She's standing there, little face deliberately fixed in place, arms crossed under her diminutive chest. She must have followed us after we left Class A. I assume she's been waiting here for us.

I don't understand, though, why Arima smiles when he sees her, why he runs forward to where she is. He comes to a stop before her, laughs. "Hey, Tsubasa!" he calls down to her as I walk up to them, standing behind them.

"Hey, Arima," she says. Then, he does something that makes me nearly fall over. He hugs her!

"You're finally back!" he says. "I'm sorry, I didn't visit you as much as I should have. I didn't even know you'd be in school again this soon."

"It's okay," Tsubasa says, rubbing against his shoulder with her head like an animal would. She has the weirdest little-kid voice. She sticks her tongue out at me under his arm.

"Eh... explain?" I say weakly.

"This is Shibahime Tsubasa," Arima says. "Tsubasa and I went to the same middle school. She's kinda like my little sister." I wouldn't want my little sister to look at me like that. "She got into an accident skateboarding, so she's been out for a while. Glad to be back, Tsubasa?"

"Mm," she mutters, pouting as he releases her from his arms. "Sorta."

Arima looks inexplicably psyched. Yeah, I've got this feeling jealousy down pat by now. I should give people expensive lectures on it. I could write one of those self-help books about it, and make bundles of money, write about experiencing it to its fullest intensity, and what can be found there-

This is silly.

"Your best friend?" I ask slowly, just staying where I am.

Arima blinks. "Well, no, not really." He looks at me for the first time. "Tsubasa, this is my best friend, Asaba Hideaki. Watch out for him," he says wryly, "He's a really big womanizer."

I wish the happiness he's showing right now wasn't so pure and sweet. That girl... she's so pretty. I wish she was my sheep. I wish I could wish that. I wish that could be what I'm thinking right now.

Thus the introductions are made, and the positioning begins.

Some guy runs up and tells Arima practice is starting. Arima leaves with him, so it's just me and Shibahime. I don't dare to follow Arima with her there, and she doesn't go after him either. Instead, she turns and faces me, look on her face way too vindictive for someone so adorable.

"I like Arima," she says. "You can't have him. Leave him alone."

So what if she's known him longer? What does she take me for? Brat.

I take a step forward, and she sticks out a foot and trips me. I topple over and fall face-first onto the grass, taste dirt. She blows a raspberry at me and runs off, and it's in that way that the war begins.

I come to school early the next morning to lie in wait for her. I put on a classic disguise, fake glasses and nose and mustache, the works. I peer out through the limbs of a particularly large bush, the most strategically placed one available. There, she's walking up the path. She came early to school because she must have known Arima always does. Ah, perfect. Such perfection must have been engineered by the Gods, smiling down on me for my victory!

She's humming lightly to herself as she makes her way down the yard. Normally such a whimsical, feminine sound would soften my chivalrous heart, but I have no pity for the likes of her! Besides, her voice really, really annoys me.

The birds chirp, sun already risen and still slowly climbing up the sky, grass she felled me upon ready to become her home. I let myself laugh evilly for a second before launching into action. I reach into the barrel at my side and pull out a water balloon. Ah, a perfect toss!

A second, then impact. She lets out a shrill scream and is drenched, puny body thrown to the ground with the force of the impact. She looks up disbelievingly, then sees me and my bush. I jump out, barrel cradled in my arms, and laugh hysterically. Her eyes widen.

"Face the water balloons of judgment!" I yell, and begin to throw again. She hits the ground, but cannot escape their righteous fury. I crow in victory as she squeals again. I wonder if she's gonna cry.

In the blink of an eye, she's inched over to the other building, and- oh, shit. Is that a hose? Yeah, it's a hose. Shit. She lets out a feral, animalistic growl, and pulls the faucet down.

Thus the first battle of the war commences.

I get soaked, too! My ethereal beauty tarnished! This calls for revenge! I let the barrel drop, ducking behind it. Her eyes narrow. I jump out and throw another balloon at her with each hand, letting my ammunition scatter. That's right, I'm the only star who's needed on this stage! Hah!

It's just like a movie where people duck behind walls and shoot each other with guns, except we fight with water on this unusually cold day. Damn, I'm already frozen. She runs behind a corner, dragging the hose with her, and our two streams of water meet. I'd sooner die than back down now!

"He's mine!" I yell. Toss.

"No, mine!" she yells back, stubbornly. Hoooooose.

"Mine!"

"Mine!"

"MINE!"

"MINE!"

This could have gone on quite a while if something hadn't happened to stop us. An unknowing Arima walks up, swinging his school bag, right where we are- I try to stop my barrage, but they've already flown- Shibahime freezes, letting out a gasp of shock, and her hand clamps down on the hose, sending a huge spurt of water out, all on-

Yeah. Arima.

Arima can't even scream as a tsunami-size wave of water crashes down on him from both sides. He falls and doesn't get up.

Slowly, Shibahime and I approach, petrified. "I-is he dead?" I breathe.

"No!" he snaps, getting to his feet. "I'm not!" We both gasp at the look on his face.

He's completely fucking furious.

"What the hell were you two doing?" he bellows.

I scratch my head sheepishly. Shibahime manages to squeak out, "Uh, fighting over you?"

Arima whirls on us. "You two STUPID little-" Then he storms off, cutting himself off. Again, neither of us dare follow him.

Shibahime and I slowly turn to face each other. "It's all your fault!" I finally shriek.

"It's yours!" she growls.

"No, it's yours!"

"Yours!"

"Yours!"

It was in such a way that negotiations between the two hostile parties broke down even further.

"I'd sooner die than lose to you!"

---

Stirred by impulses that there's something I can do

It begins for me now, feelings searching for you!

Just like, predictable old books and movies are boring-

In real life, you have to make things a little more exciting!

This warm feeling is-

C'est la vie!

I want to become the best me possible!

C'est la vie!

I want to keep on loving you!

There's something right in front of my eyes

For the moment, let's just live!

Keep on running!

Why is it that people have but one chance to live life?

Why doesn't time stand still even for one second?

Just like, an unexpected someplace causes sores from the shoes on my feet

From time to time someplace in my heart feels pain-

I know I will find you-

C'est la vie!

I have my reasons for being myself!

C'est la vie!

You have your reasons for being yourself!

I can't see anything, but I want to see something

So I chase after you!

Predictable old books and movies are boring-

In real life, you have to make things a little more exciting!

This warm feeling is-

C'est la vie!

I want to become the best me possible!

C'est la vie!

I want to keep on loving you!

C'est la vie!

I have my reasons for being myself!

C'est la vie!

You have your reasons for being yourself!

There's something right in front of my eyes

For the moment, let's just live!

Keep on running!

Keep on running-

C'est la vie...


	4. Surrealism

Author's Note- I've found characterization of Tsubasa to be the hardest thing to do in terms of personality. She's the only one who's really been baffling me. I'm not sure how much it'll show in this chapter. Gomen...

I hope you like the het smex! (I couldn't have written the corresponding Arima scene without listening to Prince of Tennis's Oshitari's "Crafty" many, many times.) Uh.........

For some reason, I'm really drawing inspiration for this from Hunter and Souji in my original story, Asuka.

Sorry this took SOOOO long! I am scum, I know, it's just, real life...

Bounce with it, yo! Love and peace!

Model Student

Chapter 4-

Stella by Moor

"I can't believe this," Tsubasa stutters, and I put down another point for me. I've just found out she's Sakura-tachi's old friend, but she's just found out I'm their new one.

Our mutual friends don't seem to see what the big deal is. "So you two have some sorta fight going on?" Aya says. "Get over it. You're still our friend, Tsubasa, but Asapin's part of our group now too."

I should have known only Sakura, Rika, and Aya would have been crazy enough to befriend the monster. Lunchtime, and I've finally gotten dry, but my experience tells me that won't last long. Tsubasa's in class F, which stopped our fighting for the morning, but it's back full swing, augmented by Tsubasa's new discovery.

"Get your own friends," Tsubasa growls, just like she'd growl, "Get your own Arima."

"They're my friends now," I say, even though I have no idea if that's true, but anything to beat the Tsubasa-bitch.

"What should we do?" Rika asks, then sighs as we both snap,

"Whose side are you on?"

Rika bites her lip, then, "Neither," she says firmly. "Come on, guys, let's go." To my surprise, Sakura and Aya obediently follow her.

"What are you doing?" I call after them, baffled.

"We'll wait it out," Sakura laughs, smirks. "From a safe distance, that is. Looks like this is gonna be entertaining, eh, Aya-chan?" Aya grins, and I'm reminded just how cold and opportunistic the girls can be.

"Let the catfight begin!"

Arima hasn't talked to either of us since this morning. I should have the advantage since I'm in his class, but a fat lot of good it's done. When he ignores someone, he really goes at it with everything he's got. He does it so aggressively it's like he's shocked you into a block of ice.

Tsubasa, how I hate you, you annoying, contemptible baby! Messing my life up, getting in my way! Even if I'm not dating him, I'm still his best friend, not you! I hate everything about you! You're not even cute, you're a slimy, creepy little worm! How could you send everything to hell so suddenly?

Still, I have to admit, it's just a little fun competing against her.

The first skirmish occurs, oddly enough, over homework. The next morning, I'm walking to school as cautiously as I can, but she still manages to get the jump on me. Before I know it, she's ripped my actually-finished math homework from my bag and has shoved it down her mouth. I watch in disbelief as she chomps down on the pieces of my hard work, grinning obscenely.

"Stay away from Arima," she says.

In return, I pick her up and hurl her into the fountain. Water seems to be a recurring theme with us, doesn't it?

I get detention, the only one in my class who lacked their homework to turn in, and Arima actually acknowledges my existence long enough to give me a sad, reproachful look. I wilt into a little puddle of shame in my seat.

Tsu-ba-saaaaaa...

"Hey," I say to one of the more popular girls during break. "Did you know Shibahime Tsubasa is a lesbian?"

The rumor spreads so quickly that I pass Chihiro in the hall and she's shooting Tsubasa a speculative glance. Point for Asapin. This is hysterical. However, she's not one to give up so easily. One minute I'm admitting to Arima that I started the rumor, a blink of the eye later he's asking me if I'm really a cross-dresser.

A new battleground emerges, one I'm confident of my victory on. Just wait, fair Arima, I'll soon smite such a blow it will vanquish the foul Tsubasa and win you back for eternity! For days all my friends ignore Tsubasa and me, but we sure are pretty entertained. It's rare that someone can keep up with me, but can she match me in this?

"Did you know Tsubasa ripped a girl's ear off?"

"Asaba Hideaki is secretly obsessed with Pokemon."

"Tsubasa has sex with animals!"

"Asaba rapes elementary-schoolers!"

"Tsubasa had plastic surgery!"

"Asaba had plastic surgery!"

"Tsubasa's a Nazi!"

"Asaba's a devout Christian!"

"Tsubasa worships the devil!"

"Asaba had a sex change!"

"Tsubasa had a sex change!"

"Asaba's a virgin!"

"Tsubasa has a tail!"

"Asaba's the love child of Hamasaki Ayumi and Gackt!"

"Tsubasa used to be a baby prostitute!"

"Asaba's in love with Arima!"

I attack her when she says that last one, and we start rolling on the floor trying to hit each other. That way the character defamation ends and the super kung-fu death match begins. Besides, no one believed us after the first few rumors, anyway. Arima later told me he hadn't believed any. It's weird he'd get anything wrong like that. One of those things was true.

It's unbelievable the way Tsubasa can fight. For someone who seems so dim she sure is multi-talented. She fights like some kinda wild cat, a dirty scavenger like a hyena, shrieking and growling, at complete odds with her ethereal appearance and name. She's tiny but quick, and she kicks harder than anyone's business, especially in the places that hurt. Fighting her doesn't make me guilty like I thought it would, because it's not fighting a girl, it's fighting a Tsubasa.

We brawl anywhere and everywhere, somehow managing to escape getting in trouble. Sakura-tachi have taken to watching each of our fights and bringing popcorn. Arima denies even knowing us, much less ever having associated with us.

I end up with a dashing manly scar across my cheek, inflicted by her nails, and my sheep tractor beam increases its power quite exponentially, girls swooning over it constantly. However, Tsubasa always ends up able to look forlorn and helpless, so she racks in the love as well.

Our areas of competition expand as the hostility between us flares to an all-time high. Flirting becomes another opportunity for contention. Subject 1: Female of the species. A Class C girl named Namie, to be precise, a girl neither of us know. Odds are she's straight, but Tsubasa can melt any girl's heart with her littleness and cuteness. I think she capitalizes on the whole maternal-instinct fluffy bunny fangirl clinical-insanity thing. Midorino Namie is a musician, friendly, and nice. She's like a blank slate for both of us. The games shoot forward!

Tsubasa gets to go first. As classes are letting out, she slinks into class C and crawls right up to Namie's desk. Namie looks up from packing her bag. "You're Tsubasa," she says, "Right?" The girl's already become infamous.

Tsubasa nods, then becomes smaller and cuter than I thought humanly possible. She bites her lip in such an adorably shy way even I want to glomp her, then asks, big, beautiful eyes watery, "Can I have a hug?"

Namie stares at her for a second, then shrieks, "So CUTE!" and pounces on Tsubasa so forcefully they both tumble over, knocking down a few chairs in the process. Go, Tsubasa. Shit. Well, I'll just have to do better.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, Namie's finally said goodbye to her friends, and, apparently part of the go-home-right-after-school club, is heading out. I'm waiting for her there in the deserted hallway, standing in her path, framed by sunlight.

"Hey, Namie-chan," I say, voice oozing charm. "Can I talk to you?"

"Asaba-san," she blinks, nervous suddenly. "Uh, yeah, of course." We go into some empty classroom, and Tsubasa, peering out at us from behind a corner, sticks her tongue out at me.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" she asks, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. She knows my reputation, but she never thought I'd talk to her. I'm so good-looking...

"Namie-chan," I begin, "I have something to say. You'll hear me out, right?"

"Of course," she says, almost stammering over those little words, and I can tell what she wants me to tell her. Girls are all the same, completely.

"Namie-chan," I breathe, "I like you."

"What!" she shrieks, turning an ungodly red.

"I like you," I say, fixing my eyes on where she stands. "You don't know me, but I know you. I've been watching you for a while. Not in a perverted way, I promise. You're just really special."

Namie gapes at me, struck almost mute. "You're joking, right?" she gasps.

I feel a sudden wave of guilt sweep over me, burying itself in my gut uncomfortably. It isn't in me to lie to women, and Arima would hate me for this. I lean in closer to her, take her shoulder so I can whisper in her ear. She freezes, breathless.

"You're right," I admit. "Tsubasa and I are fighting, and we bet about who could get your attention better. I don't even know you, but I have to win against her. Will you let me kiss you?"

Namie gasps, then looks down. "You asshole," she mutters, "I've never even been kissed before."

"I promise it'll be good," I whisper, "and I'll take you out sometime to make it up to you. Please, Midorino-san?"

She stares at me for a second, evaluating, then her blush intensifies and she nods. I can feel Tsubasa's alien gaze boring into us. I reach out and run a hand down her face, her soft cheek, and gently cup her chin in my hand, through the pulse point on her neck can feel her heartbeat accelerating.

Slowly, I lean in and place my mouth against hers, my arms around her waist leaning her back. She's warm and surprised and I try to imagine this is what kissing Arima would be like, that I'm kissing him. At first it's just lips to lips, chaste and innocent. I can feel her trembling beneath me, find an unexpected compassion for her rising in my chest. Pleasure runs through me, a dull yearning, then brightness, delicious heat. I think of Arima and dip her further back, tongue finding its way into her mouth, smooth and wet and aching, gliding against the sharpness of braces I hadn't noticed. It overwhelms my brain, the satisfaction I feel at her submission to me. She moans and reaches a delicate hand up, runs it through my hair, a caress that lingers as I pull away from her, disentangling the two of us as I help her back up. Whoo. Damn. I see Tsubasa gaping at us, forgetting about concealing herself. I point deliberately to myself. My win.

I turn back to Namie after Tsubasa's stomped off. "Thanks," I say. "When are you free?"

Namie looks dizzy, there's no other word for it, dazed and confused. She doesn't answer my question. "Is kissing always that good?" she asks, almost dreamily.

"I dunno," I say, and repeat, "When are you free?"

"Oh, forget about that," Namie says. "I mean, you're gay, right?"

My mouth drops open indignantly. "Bi!" I snap. "I'm bi!"

The musician girl shrugs. "I've just seen you with Arima Soichiro, and you seemed pretty close, that's all. Sorry if I made a mistake there, but I don't think I did."

Why is it that when it comes to this I feel so vulnerable, so unsure of myself? I don't know if I'm obvious about it, but if so many people suspect it I must be, past my shounen ai fanservice and my attention-grabbing. Someone could be joking about it with Arima right now. Why is it that when it comes to this I'm no good anymore?

"Nonsense," I say. "I'd never be able to forgive myself if I wronged a lady."

It's also strange. I mean, I'm making so many friends this year. Arima must be changing me.

Arima doesn't like it when I stop. He growls, a low sound from the depths of his body that cuts straight through my own. I stare at him, overcome by the intensity of this feeling, this realization, so much like pain only so scarily different. I've never, ever felt this before. I never even imagined I could feel like this. The normal sensation of my chest, my emotions, usually just there, oxygen, turns to something completely unfamiliar, a strange new part of me, miserably cloying flame. It's kind of like being sick, the foreignness, the desperation, the connection to something else, someone else, another part of myself. I want to give in to you. I want to stop existing right this instant.

Arima pushes me against the wall so hard it knocks the air out of me, and I can't feel my mind anymore, only his. His mouth delves into mine this time, pushing against me as I return it, hands digging into my shoulders and neck so hard I think I'm gonna come right here right now, without even being touched. I can't say anything, no smart comment, no stupid thing I'll end up regretting, no lies or denial. He wants me. Only me.

It's the principle of inevitability, his mouth on my neck, taking the place of his hands, greedily eating me up and sending my senses to the moon and reason to its dark side as he makes me cry out, hands trailing down my chest and my stomach and up my legs, my knees that want to give out beneath me. The fantasy gives out beneath me, because it's only what I imagined, not reality. If Namie had been Arima, I wouldn't have stopped.

We interrupt this program with these messages.

I should type with my whole hand, but I've only ever learned how to do it with my two index fingers. My grammar school teacher tried to teach us differently, but me, along with a few others in my class, never quite understood. It makes my typing slowly, this problem I've never lost, but it's alright. Typing slow gives me time to think, something I need on occasions like these.

"Father," I type, and stop, inspect the six letters I've put on the screen. Alright. That's fine.

"This is Hideaki. I guess you're wondering why the hell I'd be writing to you. Eh, that's a pretty good question."

I stop. Fuck, that's awful. Well, what else can I say? It's not like Arima's here to help me. It's been a week since he started ignoring Sakura and me. I keep on writing, and I think I lose the plot somewhere, but who cares, really?

"Somehow it feels like ages since I last saw you. It's only been a few weeks. It's weird, I never used to feel like this after years. Do you think we got to like each other better on your visit? I mean, we're not ready to forgive and forget, either of us. I know I'm sure not. But I really don't want to disappoint Arima. Plus, when I think about what we fought about, it seems kind of stupid to me now. Am I wrong, or am I right? What do you think?

"I haven't had any major tests, so my grades are the best they've been since about second year of elementary school. Arima and I aren't talking. He won't talk to me because I've been fighting with this girl over him. Even if he keeps ignoring me, I won't let her get the better of me. It's important to me.

"I'm not gonna change that I love Arima anytime soon. I'm not gonna stop messing around with girls. I'm not gonna be a businessman, I'm gonna be an artist. I wouldn't mind if you came to stay at my apartment again sometime.

"I want you to tell me what Mom was like sometime."

Only Father could ever understand how much that sentence hurts me to write.

These messages conclude.

Wakato-sensei announces something that totally freaks me out during our next art class. We're going to have to paint some things to be put in a museum exhibition. The saddest thing about my reaction to that, aside from the subsequent panic and screaming, is that when she says exhibition my brain goes snap to exhibitionism. Enough said there.

To be fair, Chihiro, Risa, Arisu, and Kyo are all completely dumbfounded, too. Arisu actually asks her if we're joking. We just started this class. None of us think of ourselves as real artists. We don't even know what we'd paint. My life is a sucky, sucky thing.

To make matters worse, she goes off to get a coffee for the rest of the class, just telling us to make preliminary sketches of our paintings. This woman is a lazy bitch. More than that, she is psychotic. The five of us artists are left scared to death and pissed as hell.

"This might be a good opportunity," Chihiro finally points out, and the rest of us snap at her so vehemently that even she shuts up.

"Sounds like we're stuck, though," Kyo groans. "Hey, Arisu, if we actually do have to do this, what would you do?"

Arisu stops hyperventilating for a second to look thoughtful, then shrugs. "Who knows. Well, I think we all know what Asapin's thinking about..."

Slowly, everybody's eyes turn to me. "Wha?" I say.

"She meant Arima, right?" Chihiro says.

"He wouldn't model for me, anyway," I groan. "I'm still fighting with bloody Tsubasa."

This elicits a series of moans and eye rolls from my compatriots. They've been hearing me whine about our battle for so many days on end now, they know it better than I do. "You should just give up," Chihiro says.

"No way," I retort.

"Would you paint Arima?" Risa asks, and she looks intellectually stimulated. You can tell, because when she gets like that, she grips her pencil tighter and her eyes get, like, ten times wider.

"I can't even paint that well," I mope. "And I'd never be able to do justice to Arima's beauty."

"You're such a sap," Kyo says, the exact same time Chihiro says,

"You are so whipped." God, I need new friends, like, right now.

Arisu starts sketching furiously. I look over and only see lines. Maybe she's doing modern art. That would stink. Oh, well. At least no matter what I ended up with, it would look better than hers. I think modern art is even lower than Tsubasa.

"I am not whipped," I say, pulling myself back to the topic at hand. "And I am not a sap! Come on, you've got to admit Arima is dreamy!"

"Yeah," Kyo says grudgingly.

"Yeah," Risa says.

"Yeah," Arisu says.

"I wouldn't know," says Chihiro, and in light of our stress, that makes us all crack up.

"When is the exhibition?" Risa asks, another girl hard at work sketching. My brains goes "Exhibitionism!" and just refuses to stop it. Sometimes it's actually kind of annoying being me.

"Few months," Chihiro says, and even she and Kyo are writing down ideas for styles.

"Well, Asapin," Arisu says, "Either you and Arima will be fucking by then, or you'll have turned into a complete miserable heartbroken loser. Anyone wanna take bets?"

I love my fellow artists, but every once in a while they get on my nerves.

Tsubasa and I are in an empty classroom together, after school hours. She's just proven she's superior to me at stealing stuff. I have something to ask her.

"Tsubasa," I ask, "Do you love Arima?"

Her little alien head jerks up, muscles in her jaw shooting back, stricken. There's a moment when everyone first really sees another person, when they first understand the innate similarity they have to the other. I can rarely ever tell when that happens, though, and it's not really that cut and dry, but still, I feel a little shadow of that prick me.

Words don't come easy to Tsubasa, ever. She probably had trouble learning to talk as a kid. Her nature is really one of the shyest ones there is. Her big green eyes are like the grass on the grounds out the window, not particularly happy being where they are. Her hands fidget, in out, in out, Evangelion.

"I'll say if you do," she says.

"What?" I blink. No. No way. "You first."

"No," she says, "You first."

"No," I snap. "You."

"We can at the same time," she says.

"1," she says.

"2," I say.

"3," we say together.

"Yes."

I whirl around, stare at her, and she does the same. "You-"

Something in Tsubasa seems to just explode. "It's not fair!" she screeches. "It's not fair!"

I step back, freaked, even though I can't believe I told her. How could I have been so stupid? But- she feels like I do.

"Tsubasa?" I say softly.

"It's not, not fair!" she sobs. "I've loved him for years, years, and he's never noticed! I'm just his cute little sister! I've tried so many times, but I've never been able to tell him!"

A noise falls from my lips, pushes its way out of my heart. Guilt. Pity. Self-hatred.

"I-" Tsubasa turns on me. "So many times! It HURTS! And you! I don't even know you! You just met him, and you already took my place! I hate you!"

"He doesn't like me," I finally say, and her eyes widen.

"I- I'm his friend, because I know him," I say slowly. "Arima wouldn't be friends with just anyone. But he doesn't think of me that way, either. I feel like you do about him."

"R-really?" Tsubasa breathes, and she's a little girl again.

"Maybe we should stop fighting," I say, "So Arima will like us again. We can call it a tie."

So much happened in just a few seconds, just a few words, it's making my head spin, I can't think straight. I'm not a compassionate person, but it's not fair for her or me. "It was fun, though," she whispers, breaking an agonizing pause in our dialogue.

"Yeah," I say, and smile. "It was fun fighting, wasn't it? I mean, maybe we can be friends."

Because Arima-

Tsubasa's face crumbles and she starts to cry. No way. She's crying? Well, of course. Remembering things like that, things she must have gone through, and all for nothing- well I guess she is a girl, after all. I hesitate, then the sound of her sobs makes me walk forward and cautiously pat her on the head. With a wail, she grabs onto me and buries her head in my chest. Tentatively, I pat her head again, wrapping her arms around her. I hate it when girls cry.

Arima walks in, stops walking at the sight of us. He raises an eyebrow.

"Guess what," Tsubasa whispers. "We made up."

I sleep over at Arima's house the night afterwards. We spend all the time before bed studying, because Arima, even after our little hiatus (heh) still knows me way too well. Somehow he makes it seem like doing homework is a good idea at the time, you know. I spend the next three hours contemplating if I can commit suicide with a ballpoint pen, and if I do, will angels give blow jobs?

We try to go to sleep, eyes swelling in our heads to accommodate the sudden, startling lack of light. I like to think of this particular time as "our time." We can just talk, and Arima's always more open in his own domain, plus when he's tired, his facade slips a bit. It's not as conscious a pretension as you'd expect, but most of the time, he isn't like himself at all. This, the boy lying next to me, black eyes huge, is the real Arima Soichiro.

"I missed you," I confide in him. "I hate you for leaving me alone all that time."

Arima sighs. "Tsubasa's important to me, too, in a different way than you. I needed to keep my distance. How did you manage to make up with her, anyway?"

"That's a secret," I tell him, and grin. "A secret between friends."

"You and Tsubasa are friends?" Arima asks skeptically.

I find myself reaching over and stroking his arm, drawing whimsical patterns on his hand. The sensation of skin on skin is like a static shock, like I pulled off a wool sweater too fast. Arima's soft.

"We have a lot in common," I say, and let Arima stew over that.

"I'm glad you like me again," I say, and I don't have the energy to be my normal, silly self this late.

"I missed you too," Arima confesses, voice so soft it's like he doesn't want to hear himself say it.

"Really?" I hate sounding so hopeful. I remind myself he never lies, an optimistic assumption in this circumstance.

"Yeah," Arima sighs. "Tsubasa's great, but she has her own problems, and we haven't talked for a while. You're the only one who really knows me that well. I can actually have fun with you."

"Arima?" I ask, voice kinda squeaky, "Have you ever fallen in love?"

"No," Arima says after a moment of thought. "Why, have you?"

"Yeah," I say. I stop looking at him. It's harder to lie to someone when they can see your eyes. I hide my hands under the covers so he'll only be able to feel them shaking.

"What's it like?" Arima asks, and he's really looking at me with his full attention, the complete intensity of his I've always found a drug for me, but I'm nervous.

I'm not sure how to describe it, and this situation feels kind of precarious, the movement of Arima's chest up and down with each breath he takes, my heartbeat striking up a drumbeat in my ears, the way my lips move but no sound is coming out. "It's like resignation," I admit.

"Resignation?" Arima's confused. "Why is it like that?"

"You have to just accept," I say, voice getting sharper, pissed, "That what you feel has no point."

Arima sighs. "Well, that stinks. I'd always thought love would be something positive."

"A redemptive force?" I snort. "Arima, you poor sucker. Love is the scourge of the modern world."

"Who wouldn't be interested in you, Hideaki?" Arima asks.

I want to hit him. "You're so smart. Don't you already know?"

He might actually not.

The two of us go to sleep.

"Alright," Kyo tells me. "So I was thinking maybe I'd do something with surrealism."

"Your surrealism bites," I say bluntly. Kyo glares at me. "Well, it does!" I say. "Come on."

Kyo groans. "Then what do you suggest I do? It's not like you have any ideas for yourself, Asapin."

"You know what would be cool?" I tell Kyo. "Well, you're better in monochrome than color. Maybe you should paint something in black and white."

"That's shit," Kyo says. "What would I paint?"

"I dunno," I say. "A landscape. A historical scene. A portrait. A cathedral. An everyday object. Something really cool. Maybe that guy who's giving us this weird look."

"Huh?" Kyo blinks, then freezing. "Oh, fuck."

"Who is it?" I ask, then I grin. "Oh, is that guy your ex? What was his name?"

"He's Tsuyoshi," Kyo says. He's very studiously not looking at the guy.

I have no shame. I turn and walk over to him, despite Kyo's frantic throat-cutting gestures.

Tsuyoshi looks up and frowns when he sees me approaching. "Hey," I say. "Can I talk to you?"

He nods, and we walk off, leaving Kyo gaping after us. We stop by a big window, pushed open because of the recent heat, sending wind sweeping over me. I exhale contentedly. Ah, man, that feels good. I turn to Tsuyoshi, who looks annoyed. Gee, I wonder why.

I lack subtlety. "Kyo's a cool guy," I say. "Why did you dump him?"

Tsuyoshi snorts derisively. "What, are you his best friend now?"

"We're in an advanced art class together," I say. "And no, we're not like that. So why'd you dump him?"

Tsuyoshi rolls his eyes, and I study him. He's short with an athlete's frame, face unblemished, eyes and hair their natural black. He's alright-looking. Kyo's hotter. "How is it your business?" he says.

"I heard you liked me, and that's why you broke it off," I say.

Tsuyoshi shifts, turning his gaze out the window, like he's trying to see something that's already passed. "That isn't really true. Kyo and I were having a fight, so I told him I'd fucked you."

My eyes widen. "He believed you?"

"Too much," Tsuyoshi snaps. "We're over now, okay? There's nothing to talk about."

"I heard you two were together for a while," I say, frowning. "And I mean, he knows you were lying now. Don't you want to-"

"No," Tsuyoshi says, still not looking at me. That says something in itself. "I wouldn't want to start anything with him again. He's stupid and ugly and boring, and way too obsessive. That bitch-"

My hand forms into a fist and I slam it into his face. He cries out, falls back against the windowsill. I storm off, right into Arima, who saw. Arima always seems to be everywhere. Right now, he's staring at me with this really funny open-mouthed look of surprise.

"What was that for?" Arima breathes.

"He was dissing Kyo," I say.

"Kyo?" Arima asks.

"Miyamoto," I tell him.

"You really like that guy, don't you?" Arima says after a second. There's something weird in his voice, something about its tone. I don't get it.

"Yeah," I say. "Everyone in my art group's really cool. We're gonna go out to see a movie together. I'm pretty psyched about it."

"Can I come?" Arima asks. I stop walking. Arima turns. "Come on, Hideaki," he says, "I'm gonna be late to kendo."

"You..." I try to find my voice, "Wanna come to the movies with us?"

Arima nods, and we start walking again. I'm dumbfounded, which is a stupid word, but it really expresses my feelings right now. "You're kidding," I say.

"No," Arima says patiently. "I want to."

"Are you really Arima Soichiro?" I shriek.

Arima nods, cool. "Last time I checked."

"Of course," I manage to say, and find the corners of my mouth rising into a smile. "I mean, I'd love if you came with us. I can introduce you. It's just not like you."

Arima shrugs. "Well..."

God, my hand hurts.

Arima and I walk to the theater and wait around for the others. Arisu, Risa, and Chihiro are all pretty late, but Kyo shows up just a few seconds after we do. Kyo stops in front of Arima and they nod to each other. For some reason, Arima isn't very friendly to him. Funny.

I immediately start bombarding Kyo with painting ideas. He's my sounding board. He thinks they're all crap, and says so, says I'd never make them work. I take it easily, I know I'm no artistic genius. For some reason, though, he looks smug, and Arima looks sour. Ah, well, males are stupid.

Arima and Kyo start talking about kendo. For the first time in my memory, Arima actually brings up one of his victories and brags about it. Kyo sulks, but recovers, and they start snarking at each other. I can feel my eyes bugging out. Okay, what the fuck?

Chihiro arrives, does a double-take when she sees how well Arima and Kyo are getting along- basically, they're not. "What's gotten into them?" she asks me. She's wearing these shiny black pants and this pretty blue sweater. I spend a few seconds ogling her. Nice.

"I don't know," I say, putting my eyes back at her face, since Chihiro is, you know, "grass is greener on the other side?" Yeah. "I think they have something against each other."

Chihiro wrinkles her nose. "Think they had a bad sword match or something?"

"Arima doesn't have bad matches," I say proudly. Chihiro shakes her head.

Arisu and Risa show up together. I wouldn't have thought they'd like each other, but those two girly-girls have gotten closer than any of us. I mean, they're both kinda bitches, so I guess birds of a feather flock and all that. Arima and Kyo are arguing some obscure intellectual point about kendo, way more aggressively and emotionally than is probably healthy. I am so freaked out.

Arisu and Risa raise their eyebrows in unison when they hear Arima and Kyo going at it. "Hey," Arisu says, "Arima's jealous."

"What?" I freeze. Okay, I just had, like, a one-second heart attack. 'He was too young and pretty to die.'

Risa, less shy than usual, giggles. "Arisu-chan thinks Arima's jealous over the relationship Kyo has with you."

I groan. "Don't tease me, idiots, you know I hate that. As if. Come on, let's go see the movie."

We're walking out of the film, a truly rabid action movie, and Arima and I are ahead of the others. He asks me, "Why do you call me by my family name?"

"Why shouldn't I?" I ask, blink. Huh?

"You call all your friends by their given names," Arima says.

"They're girls," I say. Duh.

"What about Miyamoto?" Arima asks, and his voice is dangerous somehow.

Arima and I end up alone at his house again, alone in his dark room, always dark even with the lights on. A thought comes to me, a thought brought by the heaviness of Arima's footsteps, by the folded corner of his ancient history textbook. "Arima," I begin, disbelieving. "Are you- jealous?"

I expect him to deny it, to tell me how retarded I am for even thinking such a thing, but he just leans down, taking off his house shoes, and says, "Maybe."

"Why?" I can't believe this. He has to be joking. But Arima doesn't joke about things like this.

Arima turns to me, turns on me, and his face is the other-him again, the desperation of repression breaking open. "I want to keep you to myself."

"I-"

"I need you," Arima says, and sits down on his futon and hugs his knees to his chest. "I can't do this alone anymore. I can't lose you. I can't."

"Oh my god," I whisper, and walk over to him, sit next to him, his demonstration of the fetal position. My brain won't start working. I have no idea what to say. Oh, God.

I'm kissing him. My hands are wound up his hair and neck, lips on his forehead, cheek, neck, mouth, and if I just pretend I'm not really doing this, then I'm not afraid of anything. My eyes slide closed, feel the tenseness of the body next to me, muscles clenched beneath skin, shock. I can't help it, either, Arima. I'm not doing anything right, clumsy, too fast, too rough, but when I open my eyes, there's his own, black, unreadable. He doesn't move beneath me. You're not going to lose me, Arima. You couldn't even if you wanted to.

Everyone always talks about how kissing and sex all that is what you do with the person you love. They say it's better that way, that unless you love someone, it isn't half as good, it doesn't mean anything. I didn't believe them.

If I only have this moment, I'm going to make it last as long as possible. Arima gasps into my mouth, and I can't tell if he's trying to get closer or pull away. How could anyone not feel the way I do about this boy? How could anyone not want him this much? How could anyone not feel the way I do at this moment, such a guilty, screaming happiness? I've waited for so, so long. He's the only thing in the entire world I want. This is the only thing I ever want to do for the rest of my life.

He wants me. He was jealous over me. He made a fool of himself over it.

Fuck it all, fuck everything, I want him to know, I want to tell him, show him everything I've been hiding from him. I want him to accept me. I want him to say it's alright.

Arima pushes me away. He looks dazed, lips swollen. I'm breathing hard, and I can't talk, but-

"I love you," I say.

"Leave," Arima says.

"W-what?" I had to have heard him wrong.

"Get out!" Arima screams, and pushes me away.

I leave.

I walk all the way home. The sun's setting, casting an unearthly glow on the cars that roll past me. It's too bad it isn't raining, the mist would make them shine. Two schoolgirls walk beside me, sharing a box of pocky and giggling over some magazine. A group of salarymen and OL's climb the steps down to the subway together, too tired to offer any meaningless pleasantries to each other. I nearly knock over an old woman and her granddaughter. I turn my head so I don't have to apologize.

I stare up into the sky, blocking the busy sidewalk. It's blue and pink and orange and yellow, a smear of oil pastels with the clouds cut clean through with silver colored pencil. The sun'll take a few more minutes up before disappearing into the horizon. It's pretty close, though, I figure it won't take long.

The stores I pass all have signs advertising sales. I don't know if they're just doing badly, or if they're trying to one-up each other in generosity. A cute young girl is the only person in one of the stores, and I feel sorry for her, so I buy some little statue. It's of a stone dragon, head raised, fake red plastic trails of flame shooting out but caught motionless.

Damn, my bag is heavy. Why did I want to bring so many left-over snacks home? Oh yeah, I thought Arima and I would eat them. I give the bag full of chocolate and flat soda to a homeless guy begging the aloof schoolgirls for some money.

I stare down at the cracks in the sidewalk and try not to step on them. That's really kind of harder than you'd think, because the moment you stop looking, there you are.

The cars beep their horns at each other. Traffic is bad today. I can hear someone playing piano in a nearby club, some outdoor restaurant blaring j-rock. I stare down at the cracks in the sidewalk and wish I could disappear into them.

When I get home, I have an email message from my father. I delete it without looking at it.


	5. My Voice

Author's Note- This will be the last chapter of Model Student I. Enjoy, everyone, and thanks for all the love! May I get many more! -snorts- Eh, sorry...

I'll be posting Model Student II soon in the same place, so stay alert! Maho x Yukino! Shoujo ai! Man, I've like, NEVER written shoujo ai. This should be interesting!

This chapter is in some ways more depressing and in some ways more positive than all the others before it. This is my favorite chapter, the one most personal to me, and it just means a lot to me. Asapin's come a long way, hasn't he? Once again, I apologize for any discrepancies in characterization.

Oh, and anyone who's seen Vision of Escaflowne will know La Torre is the tarot card The Tower, the card of "distant separation." I just finished watching Escaflowne, which probably reflects on this chapter. I finally found out the true meanings of distant separation, and of courage.

Model Student

Chapter 5-

La Torre

A few minutes after I get home, Arima calls. The phone rings a few times before I pick up. I've been listening to the radio at full volume, so it takes me a while to register that the ringing isn't part of the song playing. I pick up the receiver and hold it to my ear. "Yeah?" I ask, keeping my voice careless and trouble-free. Ah, I'm not even having the time of my life, just existing, you know?

"Hideaki," the other end says. Only my dad and Arima call me that. It's Arima's voice. Even though he and Dad's voices sound the same, they're different, too.

I want to slam the phone down. I bet it would be the first time anyone ever hung up on Arima. But so stupidly, there's still the hope in me that what he'll say will be good. What if he's calling to say he's sorry he pushed me away, he was just confused, that he really wants to be with me? But he'll probably say that he is sorry, but we can't be friends anymore. I put the fan on when I got home, but now the living room's gotten too cold. I don't move to turn it off, but I make my teeth chatter. The music is a new song, a much harder, harsher one. The static-like guitar riffs that characterize it are so not my thing, but I don't feel like moving to change the station. When I'm anxious, I think faster.

"Hideaki," Arima says, "Are you there?"

"Yeah," I reply. Maybe I can just say that one word for the entire conversation.

Arima sounds worried, which actually doesn't make me happy, it makes me feel sick, and if I fake having the flu I don't have to make myself go to school tomorrow. Arima's worried. "Hideaki, are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Hideaki," Arima says, sounding upset, "I'm sorry."

Arima's more predictable than you'd think. Smart people are all like that. I mean, like, you know how smart people are supposed to be dangerous because of their intelligence? It's the other way around.

"Will you stop saying my name so much?" I snap, breaking my resolution.

Arima sighs. I hate it when we get into situations like this. I know what he's gonna say, so I don't wanna hear it, I just want him to shut up.

"Will you turn down the music?" Arima asks.

"No."

"Don't be an asshole," Arima says. "You're the one who-"

"Who what?" I ask, cutting him off. I'm angry, a feeling that, like, partners up with sadness, and buys it flowers, and sweet-talks it majorly, and just maybe gets lucky.

"Hideaki," Arima says, and I think he's still the same way he was at his house. I grip the phone tighter in my hand. An advertisement for some huge car is blaring on the radio. "I'm not gay," says Arima.

"What?" I say, blink. "H-how do you know?"

Arima sounds like a car engine that's having problems starting, puffing in and out. He doesn't have a good reason why, though. He's the one in control.

"I don't know, really," Arima says. "I mean, I'm not sure. I've never liked anyone either way. But- Hideaki, it wouldn't be you anyway."

"Why- why not?" I hiss, I actually think I hiss. I really think I'm going to throw up. I can taste the sour, salty bile at the back of my throat. This is the part where I'm supposed to wake up.

"Dammit, Hideaki," Arima growls, "What do you want me to say?"

"Whatever," I snap. I really am gonna hang up in just a second. I really will.

Arima goes Sigh. Yeah, I know, I'm such a pain to him. "You really meant it, didn't you," he says.

"What do you care," I retort. I imagine the satisfaction of the crash of the wireless into its holder and one of the lights on the fan flickers and burns out.

"Hideaki," Arima says, and it's an echo of before, deja blue, "I wouldn't be able to stand it without you. You know I wouldn't."

"But-"

"Hideaki," Arima says, voice becoming almost frantic, almost desperate, and I know I'm the only one to ever hear him like this. "You're still my friend, right? I can't be with you, not that way, but we're still friends, right? I mean, I'm not really that special. I'm just a model student. You'll get over your crush soon enough, and things can go back to normal." He's talking so fast he's practically babbling. "I mean, everybody likes you, everybody. Lots of people, guys and girls, whichever you want, anyone would go out with you. You can find someone else, I know you will, and we'll be friends, and it'll be all for the best-"

Friends? He wants to stay friends? Of course he does. I hadn't considered it, but I am his friend, his best friend. I'm important to him.

"Fuck you," I say.

"Excuse me?" Arima says.

"If I'm your friend, if I'm so special to you-" I cut myself off. He wouldn't understand. He wouldn't ever understand. I try to take deep breaths to keep my heaving stomach under control.

"If it can't be me, why were you jealous?"

Arima's getting tired of me, I can tell. He's used to the world bending whichever way he wants it to, so I'm disgusting. "Hideaki," he says. "When someone always focuses on you, you don't have to like them at all to be jealous when they focus on someone else. It offended my ego, that's all."

"Arima," I whisper, so sick. "This isn't you. This can't be."

"I guess you don't know me as well as I thought you did," he says. "Friends?"

"Yeah," I say, "Friends," and hang up. I turn the radio off and go into the bathroom. I stand over the toilet, stick my finger down my throat, and make myself throw up. Only acid comes out.

---

I walk into the classroom where Sakura-tachi are having lunch, and promptly fall over. They're... singing?

"Do you really want to hurt me?" Rika croons into her hairbrush mike. "Do you really want to make me cry?"

"Number one!" Tsubasa shrieks. "Tsubasa, Tsubasa, number one!"

Aya's rapping. "Beer is a wonderful thing, it sprouts from the ground in springs, it makes the world happy, it makes your life fun, colon cancer for everyone!"

"Purple!" Sakura wails in English, posing on a desk and launching in an energetic Irish jig. "Purple!"

"Guys," I say, "I'm not in the mood."

They stop, glare at me as if I'm burning them in effigy. "Aya wrote a play!" Rika cries. "And we're all gonna star in it!"

Normally, I'd be totally psyched, either that or rejecting it totally vehemently. I'm normally so involved, but I don't feel anything, no reaction whatsoever. I'm not excited, but I have to act like I am. I don't have a choice.

"Oh, cool!" I yell, run over to the girls and grab Aya's hands. "Asaba Hideaki's gonna be a star!"

---

"Realism!"

"Impressionism!"

"Realism!"

"Impressionism!"

Arisu is such an idiot. Can't she tell something as artistic as ancient ruins demands impressionism? The others should be setting her straight, but instead, they're just shaking their heads at us. Wakato-sensei seems to like how we're having such impassioned, lively discussions.

After the class, we've finally reached a temporary truce. Kyo says he thinks we're both idiots, that it's too early to spend time debating things like that anyway. Chihiro's sketching as she walks, ignoring Risa, peering over her shoulder.

Kyo invites me to come over to his house this weekend. He says there's this painting he wants to show me. The girls get indignant they're not invited, and Kyo says a guy would appreciate it better. Arisu says it's probably porno. Kyo yells that it's not and gets indignant. We all laugh at him.

When I mention I'm doing a play with Sakura-tachi, Risa gets all pissed. It takes me a while to figure out that Risa and Sakura are both in the volleyball club. Arisugawa and Tsubaki, Arisu tells me, have a rather infamous rivalry. That makes us all laugh again. Us weird artists take turns being the butts of jokes.

Since it's an even day, I walk Chihiro to her class, being a gentleman to a dyke, and she asks if I'm doing okay. She says everyone, and she means everyone, she's even talked to Shibahime Tsubasa, everyone thinks I've been acting weird, that I've been trying too hard. She wants to know if something happened, because she and all my friends are getting worried.

It's just like Chihiro to be their emissary. Or liaison, whatever. I mean, she's such a good person.

I say everything's fine, and I really am happy. I'm not faking it at all. Chihiro asks if Arima and I had a fight, because we're treating each other like we're just polite acquaintances. I say Arima and I are best friends. We always will be.

---

Tsubasa and I are making plans for a trip us and our friends are taking. I don't remember what genius assigned the two of us and no one else to something so important, but I bet they'll regret it when they find out what kind of job we've done.

Tsubasa's been, like, no help at all. She started out paying attention, but then she slept for a while, then woke up and started sharpening her teeth. No, I am not kidding. And I fell asleep a few times in the middle of deliberations, too. Yeah, we are so an intrepid team. It was up to us to pick out a good transportation and a beach to go to. Well, we picked them, but I wouldn't say good. Yeah, let's not go there. Thanks.

Finally done! At least we're finished. Tsubasa's watching me, though, and its kinda creepy, with her nails sharpened to veritable claws as well as her fangs. Her huge eyes are kind of watery-looking, though not the way you'd think. She's not sad. I walk over to her, show her the brochures of the ones I picked. She eats them. I goggle at her. Goggle is a funny word, like gobble, the word Americans say that turkeys make. I find lots of stuff funny.

Tsubasa mutters, "I don't feel sorry for you."

I think I know what she's talking about, but I'd rather not. Still, I think she deserves at least verisimilitude from me. Who else loves that word? It's one of my vocab words in grammar class. Writing is like picking a series of musical notes.

"Well," I say, "I'm not sorry for you either."

We're gonna spend a weekend at the beach, but before that, my email has an invitation for me, another place to go the weekend before that. My father's invited me to come down and meet his colleagues. Maybe I'll tell Arima about it, maybe I won't.

Tsubasa really is gorgeous. It's the kind that actually takes you a while to notice. I mean, the first time you see her, you can tell she's cute and she's pretty, with the looks of a porcelain doll. But Tsubasa and I start talking about our fathers, and I realize she's beautiful. I can't believe someone could love their parents as much as she does. I can't believe how fucking upset she is that her father's getting remarried.

I furtively start to sketch her under the table as she stammers out these words. She whispers that she hasn't talked to Arima about it, because the way he's been treating me has scared her. She says she thinks I confronted him about my feelings, and now he' put this indescribable, unbreakable distance between us. It's the distance between her and her father, the father who fell in love with another woman while his daughter was hurt. It's the distance that's always been between her and Arima, because the person she is was just never good enough.

I ask Tsubasa to go out with me, and she says no.

She doesn't usually like to talk much, but the little one's babbling now. I go to the cafeteria and bring us both back cans of juice, grape for her, orange for me. I just love girls. I just love people.

We formulate battle plans, not plans for the trip we're gonna take, plans to break up her father's engagement. That probably isn't the best idea, but it makes us both feel a whole lot better.

I tell Tsubasa the things Aya told me about the play, that it's gonna be set in the future, a dystopia, like that book we read in third-year junior high, and Tsubasa and I are to be robots. That's probably because our looks are both so perfect. I buy us each a second juice, and Tsubasa tells me about a new boy in Class F, Tonami Takefumi, a smart, popular, intellectual boy who knows Arima and seems friendly with him. I think I'm more jealous about it than she is.

She tells me how Tonami seems to have adopted Sakura as his personal rival. She tells me about how she met Sakura in kindergarten. I tell her about meeting Sakura in high school. She tells me about how good Rika's strawberry shortcake is, and I resolve to pester her for some. When the subject of visiting my father comes up, I invite Tsubasa to come along, and she agrees.

---

I take Namie to a movie on Wednesday night. It's an import from China, a martial arts movie which employs way too much symbolism and way too few laws of physics. It's the most bloodthirsty thing I've seen in my entire life. Namie thinks it's brilliant.

My date wants to stop by the bookstore before getting dinner, even though it's already pretty late. She probably has some manga she wants to pick up, I didn't really listen to what she said. She disappears into the miscellaneous shelves of books, and I wait at the front, checking out the scantily clad women on the magazine covers. I poke a hole in the hem of my T-shirt. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Arima walks up to the counter and buys a book. It's some intellectual-type thing I don't recognize. He sees me and walks over. I nod to him. My hands are sweaty. My hair is getting in my face, so I push it out of the way.

Arima laughs, and his greeting is, "What in the world are you doing in a bookstore?"

I breathe in, breathe out. "Namie-chan wanted to stop to pick up a manga," I say.

"Oh," Arima says blandly. "That's nice."

My throat feels parched, dry in a way that makes me want to start coughing incessantly. I look at my watch, and the seconds are ticking by more or less the way they do normally. I reach into my pocket and pull out info on the trip we're taking. I give it to him. I want to fall asleep standing.

"We can talk then," I tell him. A dull, capricious pain passes across my ankle. My fingernails are a little dirty, and my watch left a pink line imprinted on my wrist.

Arima leaves and Namie comes back. I tell her I don't feel well, so she should just walk herself home. She does, though she looks kinda sad, peers at me curiously before skedaddling.

I go into the one-man bathroom in the back room of the bookstore and stick my index finger up my throat again. This time, I have popcorn and carbonation to throw up. In and out. In and out. I'm just really exhausted.

---

I first meet Tonami when I'm with my art friends. We've just been dismissed, it's the end of the day, and we're psyched from all the painting exercises we've been doing, plus Chihiro just made something really cool. Arisu and Risa are pretending to be mad at each other and dissing the other one, trying to slap one another. Chihiro and I are infinitely invigorated by the prospect of a chick fight. Kyo, being gay, can't quite appreciate it the way we do, but he still finds it vastly amusing.

Chihiro tells them to stop when someone walks up to us. It's a guy, sorta cute, dark skin. Kyo tells me it's the guy who hangs out with Arima now, it's Tonami.

"Asaba Hideaki?" he asks. I find myself incredibly annoyed by this guy.

"Yeah," I say, feeling my precarious good mood vanish, "That's me."

"You're friends with Tsubaki, right?" she asks, and Chihiro snorts. Risa looks interested with the mention of Sakura, but Kyo and Arisu, though they stay, open their backpacks and start flipping through each other's sketch books.

"What's it to you?" I ask, not nicely. I don't have much patience for guys.

"Will you give her a message for me?" he asks.

"Sure," I agree, groaning inwardly. God, this is like a bad movie.

Tonami opens his mouth, then closes it. "Nevermind," he says, and walks away. Risa giggles for no apparent reason. Arisu and Kyo don't even look up as he leaves. Chihiro already split sometime before and I didn't notice.

Tonami, huh? None of my business.

---

I go over to Kyo's house on Sunday evening. That's a very sad time, since it's right before Monday, the beginning of the school week, but I know I can make it fun.

Kyo lives in a pretty nice house, red brick with a white roof and all this ivy creeping up it. There's a weeping willow dominating the front yard, and one of its branches whacks me in the face as I fight my way to the entrance. It's as if they put that tree there to, like, take out the door-to-door salesman or something.

The whole place inside is high art. Shit. Alright... Is that an original? Looks like it. He must have one hell of a rich mom and dad.

Kyo comes running down the stairs half-dressed. "Oh, hey, Asapin!" he calls. "I just got up two seconds ago!"

Just when did he go to bed last night? Nut job. "You didn't forget I was coming, did you?" I ask playfully.

Kyo laughs. "How could I forget you?" I follow him up to his room, since I'm guessing that's where he's keeping the painting he wanted to show me. I hope it's really good.

Kyo pulls on a shirt while I survey his room. It's being invaded by his painting supplies. He's not the kinda guy to take something halfway. Predictably, the place is messy as hell. Arima's room is like this, only more expensive, and clean.

Kyo shows me the painting after shamefacedly trying to tidy up at little. I tell him that I don't care, because my own room at home is messier. He relaxes after that, and I get to see what I came to see. The painting is... the picture on the canvas is...

It's a wolf, gray, brown, black, staring at the viewer lustfully. This one's a flesh-eater, a flesh-eater in perfect proportion. His eyes are narrowed but still luminescent. He's licking his chops, a canine jaw already marred with blood. His fur is sleek, careful brush strokes turning the beast alive. His background is pure black. His gaze is so intense, he's looking right at me, wishing he could jump out and consume me.

"See?" Kyo says. "A girl wouldn't understand."

"Does it have a name?" I breathe, spellbound.

"No," says Kyo. "And it won't, I don't think. But the painting will. What do you think of it?"

I usually hate praising others, but, "It's incredible," I admit. "I could never paint anything that great. It really seems alive."

"Asapin, you're a wonderful painter," Kyo feels obliged to say, then ventures, "You really think so?"

"Yeah," I say, trying not to feel jealous. "I'd like to have that for myself."

"Eh, sorry," Kyo laughs, "But no."

"What technique did you use for that part of the ear?" I ask, and the art talk starts, and continues for a while. "It looks really..."

By 7:00, we've exhausted all we have to say about the wolf. Kyo looks really serious about then, which kinda alerts me, makes me wary. "Asapin," he begins, "Yesterday, I talked to Shibahime Tsubasa."

Oh. Shit. "What about it?"

"She said you confessed to Arima."

That stupid little bitch. "So what?" I snap, defensive. Kyo, stretched out across his bed, sighs.

"Asapin, we're friends, aren't we?" he says.

"Yeah," I say in a small voice. "Of course we are." I wish he hadn't said that. He couldn't have known, but-

"I'm sorry," Kyo says.

I'm sorry.

"Asapin-" he says, and I cut him off. There's a strange idea forming in my mind. I stare into the golden eyes of the wolf, and the wolf growls back, and if my life had a soundtrack, the cellos would be rising in speed, crescendo-ing, becoming unlike themselves, frantic and sour.

"Don't call me Asaba," I say. "Call me Hideaki."

-cut-

"Asapin," Kyo says. "I'm in love with Tsuyoshi."

---

Tsubasa and I ride a train to Tokyo. We've both been there before, but the hustle and bustle of the city is still striking. I'm glad to be off the train, though. Tsubasa brought a book, but I didn't, and there wasn't any other girls in our compartment. All I did was beat a few old geezers with lolicons off Tsubasa.

It's almost dinnertime when we arrive. I have the address of Father's apartment on a piece of paper, and we find after wandering a little. I press the call button on the side of the building and dial his number. His familiar voice tells me to come on up. Tsubasa squeaks. It's weird, but I think she might be scared. She doesn't like new people. There's been something bothering her, too.

"Tsubasa?" I say, watching the numbers on the elevator panel rise, "What is it that I'm missing? What is it constraining me?"

It's a line from Aya's play, so Tsubasa looks up at me, eyes red, and delivers her own line back. "What's missing in you? Start with a heartbeat."

The elevator doors open at the tenth floor. I count down the places until we reach my father's. He's left the door open for us. The place is just as flawless and faceless as I remember it. There's so much white. Tsubasa whimpers as she comes in, treading on my heels. My father comes out to meet us. He's surprised to see Tsubasa, since I, of course, forgot to tell him I was bringing her. Shit, I already know this is gonna be one hell of a visit.

"Welcome," Dad says.

"Hey, Dad," I say. "I brought my friend Tsubasa with me."

Dad groans, gaze on Tsubasa full of disgust, and I remember we always fought about me carrying on with girls. He seems to dismiss her, angry at me, deeming her unimportant. Then Tsubasa runs forward and bites his leg.

"AAAAAAAH!"

The scream echoes deep into the Tokyo night. Some manga once called this city Babylon. Tsubasa and I both add languages all our own.

You know, I think I forgive my father.

---

Tsubasa stays at the apartment the next day, but since Father has work off, he takes me to a lunch he's set up to introduce me. I wear nice clothes, making me presentable. I make no promises of the behavior to expect from me, however.

The restaurant turns out to be the first floor of a hotel. Everyone there is incredibly well-dressed. There are some really cute girls here with their families. I wink at each one as I pass them, and they giggle. I pose and preen for them and let them be struck dumb by my beauty. Ego satisfied, I continue on my pilgrimage to Dad's esteemed colleagues.

There are a lot of men, my father's age or older, and a few women, too. They're not cute, but I still smile at them charmingly, and to great effect. The guys get impatient waiting for me to sit down, so Dad pulls out a chair for me pointedly. I sit, and a waiter comes to take our drink orders. When he leaves, Dad and I get up.

"Hello, everyone," Dad says. "This is my son, Asaba Hideaki."

---

The phone at my dad's place rings. Tsubasa's watching TV, and my dad's out, so I answer it. It's Saturday night, 8 PM. My dad's wireless isn't metal, but it still looks rusted. "Hello," I say, plopping down onto Dad's big white couch. It's soft, sinking under my weight so wonderfully.

"Can I speak to Asaba Hideaki?" Arima asks. I practically drop the phone, catch with my other hand before it can crash onto the carpet. Why would Arima want to talk to me?

"Yeah, this is Hideaki," I say.

I always thought if I fell in love with someone, they'd be special. I was willing to wait for it, to wait for that person, but once I found them, I was going to give them everything I have.

"Oh," Arima says. Even though he's trying not to sound like it, I can tell how uncomfortable he is. I was so close to him before, I can hear that. "Hi."

"What's up?" I ask. Tsubasa isn't paying any attention. She's not interested in my phone conversations.

Arima's winding the phone cord around his wrist, the softest, most infinitesimal sound, the brush of plastic, synthesis. His breathing is sharp. "When I asked Tsubaki," Arima says, "She said you were staying here. I-"

"Just because you don't have parents," I say, "Doesn't mean I can't."

I'm glad Arima's not right here when I say that to him. His face must be really scary. I feel a nasty satisfaction at the knowledge I've hurt him, but mostly I feel kind of guilty. But Arima doesn't know how to talk about his feelings, his wishes, can't really talk about anything real. He can't retort. He doesn't know what to say.

"What's up?" I ask again.

Arima's voice is tight. I've upset him, and I can feel he hates me. He's also worried about something else. "Tsubasa's missing," he says, and I bite my tongue. "Apparently she's fighting with her family, and on Friday, she didn't come home. No one knows anything about where she could be or if she's alright."

"Oh, really," I say.

"Do you know anything?" Arima asks.

I don't hesitate. "No, I have no idea where she could have gone."

"Alright," Arima says. "Well, thanks anyway."

"Arima," I say, and try to find my voice.

"Yeah?" Arima asks. The sky outside the window is dark and smoggy. There's a picture of my mother on my father's desk. I pick it up and look at my mother for the first time in years. I've found my voice.

"Arima," I say, "I hate you. You're a fake and you're cruel. You're unstable and afraid, and you'd do anything not to have to admit it to yourself. You're really just a frightened, abused little boy who never grew up."

Arima is quiet. I look at Tsubasa, wolfing down my dad's honey mustard pretzels and strawberry pocky, completely oblivious. I don't stop.

"You always get your way, and everyone always loves you! Everyone thinks you're so wonderful! And- and you are." My voice breaks, and I pinch my eyes shut tight. Arima's breathing sounds strange.

"I- I just wanted to be with you," I admit. Tsubasa chomps down way too loudly on her pocky and turns the big-screen's volume up. I listen to the other end, motionless, and Arima starts to cry.

I hang up and turn to Tsubasa, remembering her wails about if she could just get her father to see how Not fine she was about his engagement, she was sure he'd listen to her then-

I walk over to her and press the TV's mute button. "Oi, chibi," I say. She looks up.

"What is it, Asapin?" she asks. I watch her for a second, then sigh. I-

"You're a great girl, Tsubasa," I say. "You're really a great girl."

"Are you hitting on me?" she asks bluntly, and I laugh and sit down to watch the rest of the movie with her. I don't say anything about what Arima told me.

---

Tsubasa and I get home really late Sunday night. We get off the train and pick up our luggage. I carry Tsubasa's out of the station, then we're standing alone together on the empty city streets of our own town. In this city, we can see the stars.

"Tsubasa," I say. "Tsubasa, are you going home?"

"Yeah," she whispers, looking down. "I'm gonna go home."

"Good luck," I tell her. She nods and leaves. I go to Arima's house after watching her go, but I don't knock on the door. I go home, too.

---

For the art display, I paint all my female friends, sitting in a circle laughing and smiling. The play is a really big success. I get lots more fangirls. Arima is consistently the top scorer in all of the school's testing, and still the perfect model student.

I haven't given up. I always thought, after all, that if I ever loved someone, I'd give them all of myself. So that's my plan. After all, he won't be able to turn me down forever. I am, as always, irresistible.

I'm a real boy now.


End file.
